


Of Knights and Dragons

by BubblegumCannibal



Series: With Honor and Magic [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Attempts at Slow Burn, Gay Romance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblegumCannibal/pseuds/BubblegumCannibal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends at first glance. That’s how all of this started. The Dragon glanced at the stars for years and wished for such a pleasure to have been bestowed upon him and the Maker hath granted him joy in form of a Serpent clad in white. Lavished was he, to the serpent, a dragon of mist colored eyes and a smile that could destroy kingdoms. Could this be love rather than simple friendship? The Serpent and the Dragon could not understand… because underneath the Serpent's guise lay a Knight shrouded in white armor and he was sure of what the outcome would be. </p><p>Don’t Knights slay dragons no matter how beautiful?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Story of the Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing it you guys! I'm sitting my buns down and doing a thing! I really wanted to touch into this AU with my Inquisitor turned general DA OC for so long, and I'm literally making myself sit down and write. I need to. Gotta get back into the swing of things no matter how long. Gotta attempt a coherent plot the best I can, right?
> 
> Let’s make this happen! Please enjoy. :)

"As the sun rose, the armies girded themselves,  
And the dragons' children put flame to the fields of Planasene,  
But the sacred Pnemoix protected them, and they did not burn."  
 _~Threnodies 6:13_

_\--_

“Long ago, when the world was very young, animals walked our lands with no fear of gods or humans to look down upon them for food and sustenance. They lived in harmony, seeking friends through odd means and happiness through success. However, there was a snake—small and blue—who held difference among his kin. He was different, held wings, leathered and silver, that caused his brethren to hate him.

_‘An ugly creature such as you,’_ they said, _‘do not deserve to live amongst our kind! Go! Shoo! Live with monsters, for you are not welcomed here.’_

For days had the small garden snake felt sadness in his chest, seeing how others cast their gaze down upon him as if he weren’t the same as they. Had he not slithered 'pon his belly the way they had or shed his skin in the sunlight? Not according to the snakes he traveled far from.

Then one day—one day he prayed. The small snake prayed to some sky being to bestow him acceptance among similar kin. ‘ _Tis a wish,_ ’ the outcasted snake spoke, ‘ _tis a wish an nothin’ else._ ’ He had prayed that one day, during his slithering travels, that he would find someone like him—someone who’d accept him as he was; a winged, flightless snake just looking for a new home. Looking for someone to teach him how to fly like the birds. Perhaps one day that wish will come true.

Alas, he is tiny, the snake is, and the world is large, but to see the morning sky blackened frightened him one early morning. No sun for just a brief moment almost had him believe that a storm was coming and the clouds were settling in. Although, there were no clouds! No rain can come if there were no clouds!”

There’s a gasp heard once tanned fingers extend towards the fire crackling before them. Large blue hues sparkled with excitement as the flames flickered and danced, forming into the silhouette of what looked to be dragons, huffing and puffing the fire that engulfed their bodies. The Marcher is quite the story teller.

Crowds begin to swell in, silent as they watch the faux creatures flutter high above the heated timber. T’was a show! Dragging all from which way to see what the hubbub was, giving them sight of something almost peaceful in times of destruction. The Breach had not lay forgotten, the minds of many—if not _all--_ still sit focused on such dangerous enticements. However, the thought of something kind, something as peaceful as this, was nothing too bad.

Some scouts eased in, and few members of the Inquisition circled out of curiosity. There is interest fairly deep within one as others trickle in and slip back out for the story. Aside one of the scouts, he sits with one leg placed over the other and his flask place onto the ground. For once, the attention had been drawn from the Tevinter mage, rumors and stories dead for just a night as they turned the minds to the story teller.

Dorian is positively rapt, despite the lazy look in his features. Leaning forward with his arms rested ‘pon his knee, he finds himself immersed by the spectle given and the heavy bass in the barbarian’s voice. He shan’t deny that it wasn’t a voice made for stories. Then again, his mind wandered back and forth, listening to the hum of the young mercenary’s voice and taking in the whispers of the crowd. He would laugh to himself if they didn’t speak ill of him after such tricks flashing above the Haven bonfire, yet, he also wouldn’t doubt them holding their tongues to keep friendly with the Herald’s kin. Yet, he watches with a gentle smile, the corner of his stormy eyes wrinkling at the charming gaze that occasionally met his with mismatched hues. He’s a bit ashamed of how attracting this Marcher is.

There’s a young girl rested on the Marcher’s knee, eyes glistening with joy. As the girl stirs, she leans forward with a gentle coo, wanting to reach out and touch the small flames, but felt the mage pull her hand back. A smile is given as he takes note of the interested faces peering into the fire, Chantry sisters inching closer to the few Templars and the children pushing closer to the logs to take a quiet seat as he continued on.

“They circled him in the sky, wings grand and others flightless, just like him. How amazed, was he! There were creatures just like him all over the land.

‘Serpent!’ A voice boomed, ‘I have answered you call for you have prayed for acceptance and here you shall receive what you have destined for.’

Yet, what got him was _him._ A massive beast of glossy gold wings and scales that reflected a glittering assortment of color as the sunlight glistened across his skin.”

Nothing could prepare the onlookers for what came next—white flame engulfed the campfire, sending a winged beast of curled flame shooting into the air with a muted howl before fading into a cloud of thick, heavy smoke.

There’s a pause, red-pink eyes glazing over to uneasy Templars who grasped at sheathed weapons. The fire settles and the mage goes back to smiling to the amused girl, thumbing away dirty blonde hair from her cheeks. Despite their tension, the child did ask for a story—she was going to get an ending.

“Was he accepted, Ser Monette?”

“Absolutely! For one as small as he, the beast that greeted him bowed his head welcoming the small friend. The winged creature was beautiful—far more beautiful than that of the tiny, blue snake. T’was not his place with all of these creatures bigger than he. Though here, at least he felt as if he could be accepted.

‘The voice of our Creator has point you to me and it brings smiles to my heart. You are still growing, little one, soon to be one of us—wings broad and as white as the clouds above to where you will learn to fly and touch the stars just as we do.’ The white winged beast took the small serpent into his talons and brought him to his face with a fanged smile, ‘Be not afraid, for we are all the same under the gaze of our Maker.’

And the serpent sat quiet, heart filled with emotion—though creatures different in look and size, the Maker has blessed them as the same blood. Do you understand that?”

The girl nods, “The Maker created us equally.”

“Atta girl.”

Faint applause rounded from the groups as they slowly began to depart. The young girl has thrown her arms around his neck and bid him farewell as a few others had who seemed to have been there since the beginning. Many walked off guiding children back to their parents and others shared snide commentary over mystical acts—the fire trick just seemed like hedge magic. _Can’t be somethin’ learnt in a Circle._ All in all, the young stood surprised that he didn’t stand with a riotous group awaiting to burn him at the stake for such illusions.

Dorian almost assumed the same. Instead, he sauntered over, hands behind his back and head held high with his eyes focused on a man that’s been nothing but kind to him since he arrived. It had only been a few weeks and he’s charmed his way with a smile (and some scotch). Not that it was a bad thing, no. Monette was a good head over him, soft caramel colored skin, and scarred at his cheeks with his hair, red and braided, resting over his shoulder with feathers and beads entwined.

It’s a damn shame there’s a gold band— plain and untouched by magic— that sits on his finger.

“There you go, being kind to people again.” The ‘Vint scoffs, “You disappear for a week and come back just as chipper as you were when you left. How do you do it?”

“Mostly magic and a lot of aged ale from home—you should join me for some when you’re free?”

Imalia Monette, that was his name, kin to Herald Trevelyan who came swooping in filled with emotional embraces when he heard she was alive. Charming fellow, so Pavus thought. One with a smile that even in the darkest time, even when they shared a drink, had them laughing like idiots. There sat nothing different within his quarters once they freed themselves from the crowds.

He’s been like this since they met, kind eyes—odd, as they were beautiful (one pink, the other crimson), and such a calm baritone that reverberated in his chest when he’d chuckle. The mage had been the only friendly face, aside from the Herald herself, that sparked any attempt of friendship since he arrived. Apparently drinking alone with the venomous whispers of the tavern were disgusting enough just to side with the lowly ‘Vint—could be pity. Could be an act of actual friendship—Dorian hasn’t quite thought more on it yet.

He’s been tempted to ask on it more, however.

Nevertheless, with skinny, ringed fingers pushing through his own tufts of raven hair, the man leans back against the wall, rim of the bottle tipped at chapped lips, “That story—how do you know it?”

“My mother,” Imalia started, fingers raking through the lose braid on his shoulder. “She used to tell it as a way to make me feel better about being the only mage when I was a boy. Why do you ask?”

His legs are crossed now, getting comfortable on his corner of the bed—wow, that ale was sweet, tasted of fermented apples and cinnamon... “It’s a Tevinter tale.”

“You’re kidding me. How?”

“It was a childish story of star-crossed dragons.” There’s a wrinkle that furrows skin upon the bridge of the Pavus’s nose. T’was a silly story, in his opinion. Instead, he simply took a drink, “It supposed to be about the unnamed, forgotten brother of Uthemiel for he was the god of love—however, it is heavily applied that the Serpent was male and that just doesn’t work. Not in Tevinter anyway.”

Imalia’s gaze turns downward to his bottle, fingers rapping against the glass in wants to question _w_ _hy_ over anything. Rather, he scoots back to sit a bit closer, “Does that mean there lies more to the story? Do they fall in love?”

Dorian scoffs into the bottle for he doesn’t quite want to answer it—leave it a fancy mystery that the mercenary had to solve on his own. Why would—no... Why _is_ he so curious over a story that sits as lewd in the eyes of some? It’s not behavior he quests to promote when he himself cannot indulge in such joys.

Yet despite how much the story got under his skin on a personal level, Dorian did find Imalia’s curiosity quite— _captivating?_ Could that have been the proper term to throw there, watching as sharp teeth chew on tan lips. He’s tempted—oh so tempted to tell him.

_The serpent loved the dragon._

                                                                _**And the dragon became the stars.**_

Alas he only replies with a smile once the bottle is removed from his lips, “I promise to tell you some other time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for this first chapter is very dialogue heavy– first chapters are hard, let’s be real. It’s been forever and a day since I’ve sat down and worked on something with length. Hoping for slow burn– trying for slow burn. May not work as well, but hey, at least I tried something new.


	2. Challenges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just like it when you get that spontaneous muse to write and you just feel good doing it? It's a happy tingly feeling, my friends.

Eyes sorrow-blinded, in darkness unbroken  
There 'pon the mountain, a voice answered my call.  
"Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing,  
An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown.  
You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr.  
Within My creation, none are alone."  
 _~Andraste 1:7_

\--

A few weeks and Dorian has yet to escape from the sight of the show. Silhouettes of complex animals with _detail!_ Even questioning it, the answer seemed dodgy. Apparently he had learned it in some back-water area of Antiva from some one-eyed, ex-Circle Enchanter turned homeless nomad of a mage—Imalia’s words, not his. He couldn’t help but comment of how entertaining that city must have been. Dorian does wish Ferelden was just as exciting.

As if snow and ice were truly enticing…

It’s quite cold here—makes men homesick knowing none of them can return to a place that has chased them out or sucked them into a battle they wanted nothing of. The gash in the sky, teeming with life, was what kept them here. Stuck. Complaining. All because it was freezing come morn. Bull laughed over how the two of them—Dorian and Imalia— shivered as they made their trek through the Hinterlands and the barbarian would scowl at the sound of the man’s throaty chuckle.

He’s an eastern Marcher, Monette is, the cold doesn’t bother him—it’s the _snow_ that he’s beginning to hate. “Makes old scars and beat up joints ache,” is what he said earlier. Apparently the coast of the Free Marches has rather brisk winter, but snow is very… scarce.

“It’s like dust,” he started, “y’blow on it and it goes away! The snow there is not layered in blankets like it is here.”

Winter becomes more beautiful the more south you go, is how he described it. Blankets of untouched sparkling white, glistening in the morning sunlight just waiting for the striving forest creatures to roll around in it with excitement or the young children to climb the highest hill and slide down on small, shield-like, rounded bobsleds. The mention of it brought a visible smile to Trevelyan’s face as she bit down on her lip. When she wasn’t training for the Ostwick guard, once winter came, she spent her days ogling the ice that built up on Waking Sea.

It’s been weeks since Dorian has seen the Herald smile since he’s joined. Terrible thing, stress and snow, makes your teeth chatter and dream for it to all go away. Yet with Bull being from Seheron and himself being from the north, he doubts the Qunari has ever _seen_ snow that thick—Maker knows he hasn’t. Makes him almost wish Tevinter saw such lavished things within the deserts. He’d probably hate it less. Then again, the lush oasis of Minrathos was far too beautiful to have ruined with dead trees and this void-awful chill.

There weren’t even blankets of snow in the Hinterlands. Mayhaps a patch of ice or a tissue collection of snow, but nothing _too_ dense.

Bull hums with a gentle pat of Dorian’s bare shoulder, “No more of this grumblin’ about the cold. We gotta talk about something a little bit warmer!”

Imalia looked back, fingers scratching at the shaved side of his head in curiosity, “…Like?”

“ _Like,_ uh, you got someone to go back home to?”

“Me?” Bull has his full attention now. No more idle playing with his half-assed braid.

“Yeah, _you,_ Red.”

“I’ve got a fox.”

The qunari whistles with a growing grin on his face, teeth flashing from the thought of some burly, Marcher beauty, “Oooh, a vixen! Tell me about her.”

Now the _Herald_ is laughing.

“Well,” Imalia started, “ **he** is rather small, red, and covered in fur.”

“Whoa. Wait. _What?_ ”

“I have a fox. A literal small, four year old fox. He’s all I’ve got. What? Did you think I meant a woman? No, no. Not interested there—I’m far too busy to hold a stable relationship.”

Well that answers a _lot_ but doesn’t explain the **_ring._** No, no. This explained it quite well—Dorian Pavus found himself over-exaggerating things to keep himself from flirting with a charming smile. And what a smile it was. A creature as insignificant as a _fox_ had him trying to hold back such a small bit of joy. No avail there. The little thing was a rescued kit, apparently, and the way Imalia mentioned him brought a sweet, honest smile to brown lips. Almost warms the soul looking at it.

But now at least Dorian knew that somewhere, with some wiggle room, that he had a chance. It’s a terrible thing that he has such a type—tall, charming, and intelligent... or he’s crossing his fingers for that. He’s heard stories (namely rumor) that Marcher’s weren’t all that smart. Hit first then ask questions later.

“What about you, ‘Vint? Got someone?”

Pavus shakes his head. They know nothing of who Dorian _(Scion of House--)_ Pavus really is past the fact that he was the Tevinter who wanted to stop the bad guys from the Motherland. Truthfully, from there, they didn’t deserve to know any details. It’s not like many of them liked him to begin with.

Yet ahead of them, Imalia pulls the Herald aside and she waves them off before entering the next village, holding up a finger to the scouts as push toward a small pond at his side. He huffs, petting her armored bicep once they found an empty clearing.

It’s beautiful out here, in the Hinterlands. That is… when the world sits calm. Alas, he can’t help but allow his shoulders to slump forward once arms unhook. Imalia is not an open man—he tries, of course, but it’s rather difficult (or so he claims). As one who is the son of a Knight Commander and a Revered Mother, often times, keeping to yourself is all you can do— it’s the judgment that always comes. A mage in a strict house hold has no word in what he wants.

There’s no “opening up about your feelings” either.

                                Stoic and strong – there’s no other way around it.

 “Siding with the Qunari are you? You don’t seem the type, Herald.”

She’s shorter than him by far more than just a few inches, freckles, and soft pastel green hues that stared up at him with annoyed brows, “Don’t you dare start that _Herald_ crap. I deny, but they push on.”

Imalia scoffed, “I doubt that. You’ve seemed to revel in it, but you’re ignoring my question.”

“The Iron Bull is a good man. He’s been honest with me since the start,” There’s a gentle shrug as she pulls her arm free from his. Not much she can say about the Qunari other than the borderlining distrust for almost everyone under her apparent command, “Yet… I can’t say much in Dorian’s direction.”

“Ooh. Last time I saw you around _any_ Qunari, you threatened Silvyr. Poor guy already has the shit end of the stick for being Vashoth… and then you threatened to rip the man’s horns off. I’m quite shocked to see you being _‘kind’_ to Bull. Why not be kind to everyone… including Pavus?” He caught that bit of snide in her voice from the last comment. Since he had arrived it had been one thing that just confused him greatly. She was putting on a new face for strangers. Perhaps a way to reinvent herself, but it all felt so… fake.

“And why should I be? I don’t know any of these people and I’m being told to put on a nice smile for something I didn’t do. And if you want me to say something I’m going to regret—I don’t trust _any_ of the mages here, but **you. _You_** have done more than any of these people have for me, and how am I truly supposed to trust any of these strangers?” She keeps her voice down despite the swelling feeling in her chest of wanting to kick, scream, and cry. Seems like she’s been holding all this in for far too long or no one has given her the chance to even mention how she felt about her sudden placement.

“You feel better?”

“Not really.”

“So… none of the mages? You’re sounding like your uncle.”

Alessana frowns, “Don’t compare me to him.”

“Well you are.” Imalia shrugs, “Vivienne… from what I’ve witnessed is someone sketchy. Raised with a golden spoon in her mouth and really wants circles to be rebuilt with everything that’s happened? Yeah. No. Solas—eh. _Eh._ Knows too much and flaunts it. And then Dorian? He’s a ‘Vint, so what?”

“What do you mean _‘so what?’_ Tevinter is behind the lot of this and—and don’t you dare say you fancy him.”

The mage stays quiet for a moment matching the stare the Herald gave to him. Which yes, the ultimate answer to her statement was that there was something there. Was it fancy? Possibly. Had he found the ‘Vint enticing...? Attractive? Of course. Does he want to admit it? Not at all. Instead she rolls her eyes, arms crossing over her chest plate with a little series clicks and clanks.

She sighs, eyes gazing up at her god-brother in hopes to understand, “I don’t trust him. Period.” That got a brow raise out of the mage, “Why would a ‘Vint rat on his fellow kin? It doesn’t make sense to me. Either he’s a good one or one of the best infiltrators I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s a passing thought even after he’s saved your life? Doesn’t quite seem fair. He puts his neck out for you and he’s the enemy? That goes for Solas too.”

“Stop it!”

A shrug comes from the young mercenary with a shake of his head. Does he care of how she acts to him? No, but a false front to everyone else? Bullshit. “I refuse! Be honest if you’re going to treat all of them like traitors and liars!”

From the village, the others look on in curiosity. A few civilians pass by with kind greetings, some leaving fruit and bread around the companions and the scouts as a sign of friendship towards those who are helping push the problem, rather than _bring_ the problem. It’s peaceful here. Children ran about laughing among each other. Chickens clucked from the near-by hen house. Singing was heard belching from the open doors of the closest tavern. The tiny city was alive and thriving even with the war ripping away at the praries around them.

Feels ever so nice here.

“Catchin’ up looks a lot like arguin’.” Bull snorts, “I guess siblings can’t go too long without one fight.”

“What do you think they are fighting about?”

Grey shoulders roll forward once arms cross over his wide chest, “Don’t know. Don’t wanna know.”

“Hm. Bull, I need assistance. Someone who can keep things… silent.”

“Pretty sure that’s my job, Princess.”

There’s a look, head down just a bit and lips parted, as eyebrows lower in casual frustration, “Bull. Yes or no?”

“Everything you say stays between you and me.” There’s a growing smile on those chapped lips, but it’s honest.

Dorian knows there’s no beating around the bush for The Iron Bull. He was a man made of brawn and brain—which sat fascinating to him, seeing how the misconceptions had many back home believe that they weren’t men made into scholars. However, one could assume that if they were to be damn good spies, as Bull is, they had to be intelligent. He must be straight forward, otherwise the man of bovine horns is bound to read him like a children’s book, “I have a problem—rather _childish_ problem.”

“Go on…”

There’s a haphazard gesture of a wave of his hand, gold rings sparkling in the sun as he lifted his arm then folded it lazily into the crease of the other, “ ** _Him._** I’m unsure if it’s a passing fancy because he’s nice, or I’m actually…”

Wrinkles at his eyes (well _eye_ ), Bull finds himself smiling with a sight of far too many teeth down at the shorter mage, “Ya like him! Oh, man!”

“That’s not what I was going to say—”

“—But that’s what you were hinting at.”

Though he had been cut off, Bull was right. He couldn’t see if it were infatuation where he just wanted to pull him in to a quiet corner and let the man have him until his legs were sore or if he were actually smitten by… _kindness._ What a silly thought. He’d laugh at himself if he could. Instead, he throws his head back to stare at the sky for a moment, groaning as he does so, “ _Fasta vass!_ What do I do?”

“Y’ever think about talkin’ to him? He’s not a big, scary ogre. I’m sure you could get him to open up more. I bet he has some good stories—the last one about him getting stuck in a tree because of his buddy punching a bear? Man! I bet they get more entertainin’.”

Dorian huffs, hands at his hips and fog colored gaze focused on the ginger across the way. The way he stood almost made him a giant in comparison to that of the small Herald. His fingers glistening from the sharp, talon rings that sat upon a couple fingers, tapping among his cheek. Once the hand dropped, Dorian bit his lip as subtle as he could, watching that smile flash in the distance—towards him, matter of fact!

Bull nudged him playfully, a smile equally just as nice gleaming down at him, “Shake off those willies, Princess. You have to get out of your shell somehow, but you have to keep me updated.”

“Don’t play matchmaker…”

“No promises.”

Bull is a good man. One with a good head on his shoulders and one who’s also been a good friend, sans a few arguments here and there, but he’s been just the same—openly welcoming and a pleasure to keep around. Perhaps he should take the advice? It’d take a few more days to make it to Redcliffe from where they were and he’d have plenty of time to pull him back from the main groups (if they catch up with the rest) to sit and chat.

Maybe things will come and things will change. With the idea of having that space to shimmy himself in and flutter his lashes, something can move from there… but only if Imalia sees him the same way… and there lies the challenge.

                                                And Dorian Pavus never backs down from a challenge.


	3. Warriors on the Farm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever think magic has a specific smell to other mages? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?

"Great heroes beyond counting raised  
Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men  
And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.  
Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,  
Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,  
Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill."  
_~Andraste 1:1_

_\--_

The cities between Haven and the awesome horizon of the Hinterlands were vastly different in comparison. Some were in total denial of the Breach and others had no idea the war between Templars and Mages. One small village laughed about it, “sounds like a piss fight with no winner.”

At least that village was fairly kind to the Inquisition. The others…? Not so much.

Almost composed of nothing but rogue Templars, they eyed them down like dogs on fresh meat, salivating at that want to eradicate the only two mages within arm’s reach of them. The others, aside from the Herald herself and The Iron Bull, were two rogue scouts—one Elf, the other Dwarf. Not really a team made for a large scale battle as much as it was one made to work problems and secure success through small, staggered battles.

“I am Alessana Trevelyan, Knight-Captain of the Ostwick guard and Herald of the Inquisition, you will allow us passage and lay down your arms!” She’s crossing her fingers. Bull’s inching for his axe. The scouts are stepping closer to Dorian and Imalia, who are mindlessly reaching for the staves at their back.

“Ain’t never heard of no _woman_ Trevelyan makin’ it as Captain of the guard!” It was as if they saw right through her guise and shooting straight past her second title, but they were Fereldans… not _Marchers._ What did **_they_** know about her? Obviously something none of them knew.

This was the beginning of a mess that shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Two mages, to most warriors, always came across as a bad plan when it came to battle, but the Herald was always intrigued by surprise tactics that most could pull out in the midst of a well controlled fight. Two mages can do as much damage as a team of warriors if trained properly, and Imalia needed no training. Same with Dorian, seeing that he looked like a man who looked like he whistled joyful tunes, twirling his staff through a battlefield.

When one casted, the other shielded and when an enemy got too close to the other, one would duck while the other club whatever flanker with the blunt end of his staff. The two of them were quite a decent pair – a daunting partnership, if one could call their paring that.

Even in blinding rain, a cone of bright fire sprayed from the barbarian’s fingers, heating up Imalia’s hands once he swaps grips, throwing his staff into his free hand and setting a few Templars ablaze with the other as they charged his way. With a shriek from one, a bulkier man brought up his shield as two fell, then three causing Monette to surge back and away from rushing shield bash.

Thunder rolled through the sky and lightning struck the ground with a wet slap, chaining itself and bouncing from enemy to enemy as a way to push them back—stunned or killed. Dorian would rather stay alive than complain of the downfall soaking his silks — that part will come later. Instead, he pressed himself close to the grey qunari the best he could trying to sort out the commands given by he and the herald through the muffling shower.

“BACK — ! NOW — _BACK!_ ”

Pavus could have sworn Trevelyan was demanding a retreat, but his retreat led him somewhere else. He could feel his heart drop with the jolt of adrenaline that shook his core, a foot slipping from beneath him to drop him down the side of an unexpected cliff. His staff went first, dropping into a blind abyss as he shot a hand out to snatch the grimoire that rested on Monette’s belt, pulling the other mage with him, who reached for the Iron Bull, but no avail.

T’was almost a domino effect of sliding fighters, slipping through the mud, a couple unknowing and screeching once they fell from the side of the cliff and the one still thrashing for Imalia colliding with him and skidding for a grip he couldn’t catch.

Down. Down into the muddy abyss. Bodies landing on top of one another and weapons raining from the sky once gravity finally pulled them with. Dorian had found himself rolling within what felt like grass to stone while Imalia hit stone and metal to hear the breathless grunt of one of the Templars beneath him. Dazed, he rolled back into the mud, shoulder and ribs stinging at the subtle movement. Whoever was alive down here was bound to hate it when they started moving. Imalia felt the pain and all he did was sit up.

“Pavus! Monette! Come on, I know you two aren’t dead down there!” There’s a bass in that voice, must have been Bull. Could be one of the scouts.

Dorian groaned. They are still muffled, but he can hear them briefly. “Fine!” He’s guessing at this point, “We’ll meet up at the camp!?”

“— SAFE! _STAY SAFE!_ ” The second voice, perhaps the Herald again but, still muffled.

A moment passes and he’s found his staff. Though it hurts to stand, he’s pushed away the help given from Imalia, who winced at the very gesture of an attempt of moving an arm by waving his hand and shooing the other mage back as if he had been sick with the plague. He was fine. Dorian was _fine._

Even wincing at the subtle pressure of his ankle screamed he wasn’t, but he could hobble. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in wilder predicaments. Dorian Pavus may be beautiful, but a man has his scars just as any other that may have physically crippled him for a short time. He can simply hide those scars and battle wounds just a touch better. Or so he thought.

A gasp came from the both of them and yanked Dorian from his thoughts. The rain had begun to slow, but the two of them were covered in mud. Though, at the moment, his clothing held no problem in his mind, it was the other that worried him. Imalia had scooped the limping Tevinter into his arms, Dorian’s legs limply over one arm and the other safely securing him close. Seemed the Marcher could care less of the staff he had to maneuver underneath.

The both of them wanted the Ferelden cold back rather than the soggy squish of mud and the molding smell of soaked corpses. At least, before all of this, everything was… _almost_ tolerable. Alas, the ‘Vint rests his head ‘pon Imalia’s shoulder, taking advantage of this… closeness? No. No. Or perhaps? Imalia is warm even while dripping wet. The scars on his face etch age and stories of journeys he quests to know. He’s quite the handsome lad—hardened yet plesant. But… No. Anyone could pull off a friendly face and kind smile.

His mind shouldn’t stray here… but he does smell nice. Even with the mud clad on their clothing, and the heavy scent of earth emitting from their clothing, there’s a faint trickle of… lavender? Perhaps? A far better smell than that of the unwashed brute that was Blackwall. But…

No. Absolutely not. He can’t fall head over heels for a man with a pretty smile and kind aura. It could be all a scam lead everyone weak for it into some false sense of security and just… destroy them… or is it just _him?_ Almost makes him wonder about this man.

Who really is Imalia Monette? Well, what about him needs to be known in the first place?

He’s not much, is he? Friendly, but quiet. A highly skilled, well trained mage, but… what about _**him?**_ What makes him so interesting that brings that aura about him that makes someone curious about just knowing **_him?_** All Dorian knew was that Imalia Monette was a soldier of sorts and the eldest brother to the Herald, Alessana Trevelyan.

All of this, aside from the little tidbits given from when they split wines back in Haven, other than the occasional silly small story and the personality shown when they sat around campfire—he knew _nothing._

                                And Imalia would prefer it that way.

His past is nothing extravagant. It’s filled with tales of tiresome survival and cowardice neatly hidden behind stacks and stories of bravery. Monette doesn’t see what holds people enticed, but as long as the charm doesn’t get him killed, he’ll throw smiles left and right... but at least some deserve his kindness. Some, he believes, understand his plight in some odd way, however, for now, making allies under whatever guise he can pull out is all he has.

Perhaps the truth will come eventually. Today, nor any time soon, is purely not that day.

_“Ho there!”_

* * *

Time had long past since the rain had stopped. With the moons rested high within the sky, the two sat comfortably ‘pon the dry, creaking wood of an older woman’s home. She had found them earlier from her old wagon and equally older horses, still scuffling through the mud and offered them a place to hold out until morning. A life saver, Ms. Tallmadge was, gave the boys fresh, dry clothing, and bed rolls to keep as they set up their little pallets on the floor before the fireplace.

It was nice— _welcoming…_ sans the uncomfortable stares given by her daughters.

She sat a bit hunched with a wrinkle upon her features and silver hair to match, but she was in well shape for a tiny farmer out here in “no man’s land” Ferelden. Her daughters even looked like younger versions of her sitting in stair steps of 40, mid 30’s, and mid to late 20’s. They were lovely, just… judgmental. Even after the Dorian and Imalia claimed peace, laying their weaponry in a far off corner of the farmhouse.

“What are y’names?” The eldest spoke up from her bowl.

Dorian glanced over to his red-headed companion who waited to answer, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and swallowing his food— _like a gentleman_ —and gave a small smile, “Full title, Warden-Commander Eien-Imalia Monette and my friend is—”

“—Pavus. D-Dorian,” The look given was one of skeptical grey hues, but he’ll question of _that_ later. “No fancy title, sorry.”

“A _Warden?_ ” The youngest, blonde Tallmadge cooed, “Never met another Warden. Can ya prove it?”

There’s a solemn shake of his head, “Not today. Thought we could pass through to meet up with Inquisition scouts as civilians, we didn’t expect resistance to pop up on us.” He then paused, “ _Another?_ ”

The silence within the room was almost unsettling. The girls fidgeted and looked at their mother before glancing back at him, “Our brother—Joseph Tallmadge, did… did you know him?”

“Sounds familiar. About Dorian’s height, give or take? Blond with pretty, bright green eyes and a gorgeous smile to match?”

“…Sounds like him,” the middle Tallmadge finally piped in. “We haven’t heard from him in… three years now? No one knows what happened.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know either. We met briefly at a shared camp. His personality was infectious, but I couldn’t tell you where he’s stationed. I follow where my bosses tell me to go and in the Free Marches, that’s… everywhere.”

The youngest gave a small huff, prodding at her stew with her spoon, “If you hear anything from him, bring him home?”

Imalia nods, “I can talk to a few friends and see what I can do.”

A couple more hours had passed before everyone had scurried off to their spots and respectable rooms for the night. Dorian sat up right, leaning forward as he watched the dull green glow of Imalia’s magic envelop his throbbing ankle. _‘A sprain,’_ Lady Tallmadge said, _‘nothin’ too bad.’_ Said she was used to little things like this from her boys. To her, it was better to stay _off_ of his feet for a while rather than allow magic to tend to it.

Does better naturally.

All in all, he preferred the little comfort, something to pull the pain away rather than the wraps that kept things in place. However, there was… something else nagging at him.

“Who are you?” His voice was kept low to a barely audible whisper. Within the few hours they had been here, he had heard stories that just don’t fit.

“I don’t understand.”

“You exactly what I mean, Eien-Imalia.”

Imalia sighs for he felt his comment would be brought up. “Grey-Wardens are highly respected here with the King and the Hero. I did not expect the question.”

Dorian’s brows furrow, brown lips turning downward in annoyance as he pulls his leg away and scoots to his bed roll, “You did not have to continue with your lie.  What if they never find out about him? You rose hope that they may not be able to ever have!”

“I’m sorry. It’s… something I’m used to having come out of my mouth. You travel with them long enough and you become one of them.” Slip of the tongue of a man who loves to travel. Slip of the tongue of a man who’s met and journeyed with many and those many being _Grey Wardens_.

“What do you mean by that…?”

The Marcher couldn’t breathe before there was a heavy push at the door then a thump followed by a stream of surly swearing. In silence, one of the bedroom doors opened with a slow, low creak. Wide eyed and silent, the mages watched as the old woman stepped free from her bedroom, day clothing back on and silver hair pulled back into its braided bun.

“You two need to hide or leave.”

Imalia frowned, taking to his feet with a sigh, “By an honor code, I cannot leave you to whatever is banging at your door.”

“They are… Templar.”

That caught Dorian’s attention, “You know them?”

Lady Tallmadge gritted her teeth, “Housed them as they fed my youngest boy propaganda against mages.”

Hand placed at his chest, Imalia gives a gentle, short bow, “Please do not push us away.  Allow us to help you the best we can.” He flinches at the sound of a harsher bang, “So if you trust me, you will hand be a sword. Doesn’t matter if it’s old and broken or just a hilt.”

“A _hilt?_ ” That seemed to be the question that lingered on the lips of everyone in the room.

“Don’t question it. Just--” There’s a splintering crack at the door, “…Just trust me.”

                _Just trust me._

T’is a line that lingers when one of the girls actually brings him a hilt. T’is a line that holds weight when the door comes crashing in and the leader starts issuing orders. T’is a line most important when innocents are in danger because of two mages who lived when they should have died.

Imalia’s long tackled the leader back outside in hopes to keep things contained outdoors. Tallmadge lost her front door; she didn’t deserve to have her home trashed because of rambunctious, angry Templars. Especially the ones still miffed from their scuffle with the Inquisition. Surrounded, Imalia had hope that things would slide somewhere positive for them. It was only eight of them—nothing either of them could handle, right?

Plus, he’s been through worse… especially with templars. Yeah… He can do it.

There’s a sweet spot given when it comes to general combat. Having Dorian watching his flank, white-purple streaks of lightning pulling from his fingers to push back and stun, while Imalia gave truth to the “Barbarian standard”. It’s what Monette is at heart, there’s no denying that. He was raised to embrace it. Nurtured to hone in specific olden traditions despite tainted blood. No matter what, it was (and forever will be) what the livelihood of the Free Marches were, as well as a giant middle finger to Ancient Tevinter.

It wasn’t as much as he had forgone the sword given to him as much as it had been casted by his hands by aid of a shield barer shoving him back with a harsh stagger. With no staff to aid him, and the bladeless hilt tucked away, he had nothing but his fists. All he really needed, or so he says.

Right. Left. Duck. Repeat. Then silent complaints came when his knuckles pop on impact with every other connected hit. A gust of magic, whatever force he could conjure up to push back the shielded brute, then turned back to the man’s team to repeat faster, if not _harder._ And for anyone special coming up behind, he’d await another moment to catch sight of Dorian casting to take what blow was given and snatch their weapon away until he lost that one too.

Seems simple when your body isn’t aching from the countless pushes of spell eradication forced on him and a possible wrist dislocation…

Eight fell to six, then six to four. All of them standing strong around him, weapons held high and ready to slay the exhausted mage. Imalia is wary, hands throbbing and that drain on his mana still ticking away inside him. Yet, as blades rise, he braces himself, ready for whatever he misses, just to hear a hard grunt of colliding bodies, and a sickening squish.

A glimpse, oh so quickly over his shoulder, spotted a man far shorter than he with eyes focused on the next target as his hand rose, pulsating a deep purple glow to hold one of the men in place with glossing, wide eyes, choking on a stuttered yelp of horror. The feeling of that magic felt familiar to the barbarian—cold and almost lifeless. _Necromancy._ It’s an odd magic, that is. Smells of copper when used on the living, Imalia could never mistake that. “Go on, Monette! I’ve got this one, handle them!”

No need for Pavus to repeat himself as he spun back around to grab the shield first, other hand whipping back to grab the bladeless hilt that sat rested in his back pocket. Bright, did it glow, the shine of it emitting a blinding white-green shine as something formed from that hilt. Magic lit up the tattoos at Imalia’s wrist as he brought down the hilt with enough force to swing him around the shield and slash away at the man’s back before whipping his arm back to catch the other.

It’s… a blade. A white, sparkling blade, long and sharp, made of magic as if it were torn from the void itself. And it was. Keyword: _was._ The blade had begun to dissipate once he no longer needed it.

But Dorian needed his. Stepping away from the panting man, still writing from the side effects of his own magic, he messily yanked free a knife from that of a dead man’s head, and bent down to clean the gore from the shining steel. Sheathing his knife in its black case, he turned to the man and pulled him upward to slap his back a few times telling him, “Cough it up, boy. Disgusting as it is, vomiting will do you far better than suffering with it churning in your throat.”

Bull was right—you can’t trust the pretty ones. They are the ones far too dangerous for their own good, throwing you into danger while showing up to fight at your side or kill you where you stood. For once, a massive grey man with bovine horns jetting from his temples spoke more truth than any romantic Orlesian scholar.

Dorian glanced back, still hobbling on that swollen ankle of his with a hand still patting at the last templar’s back, “—And what about you, Imalia? A Knight Enchanter, is it? That’s what they call it down here in the south, is it not?”

“It’s the only skill fitting for soldiers,” he replied, flexing his fingers.

“A handy skill, yes, but you are no soldier. You are a formidable mage and many back home would commend you on that.”

Imalia shook his head, still flexing his hand and checking for breaks or dislocations. His fingers hurt, but that could have been from striking that shield as hard as he did, “I am a soldier first and a mage second, Dorian. That was not my choice.”

He tilts his head, eyebrows lowering in slight confusion. What has the south done to their mages? First it’s shoving them into mage prisons and calling them schools, now making them soldiers? Hopefully that’s what he got out of that and upsettingly; he can’t bring himself to ask about it. Perhaps another time.

There’s a pause and Imalia eyes the last Templar before eyeing Dorian, “You kept one?”

“It’s their brother. They kept muttering it. Had to make sure you didn’t kill the stupid kid.”

The barbarian gives a squint then pans his gaze back to the ladies, then down to the bodies. This was going to be a long night.


	4. Bonding at Camp side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crushes are hard to write, you guys. lmao
> 
> forgive me for being a bit late on posting. work has begun taking my time, but don't worry. i shall prevail!

All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand  
Beloved and precious to Him.  
Where the Maker has turned His face away,  
Is a Void in all things;  
In the world, in the Fade,  
In the hearts and minds of men.

_~Thernodies 12:4_

* * *

 

The Templars were buried come sunrise… the dead ones, that is. There had been a few still alive, hurting, but breathing, who gave in to help with no choice in the matter. Those still alive were rather… polite, once whipped into submission. They had spent the rest of the night digging the graves and rebuilding the kicked in door as a way of apology for bringing a problem they believed had resolved on its own. In a bizarre way of seeing it, these men at one point was damned headstrong on wanting to murder the small party just hours prior were now delivering a small eulogy before sunrise just seemed... peaceful.

It had not been long after that the boys were suited up with clean bed rolls, a bit of fur, and a basket of food before Tallmadge allowed them to set out. Dorian’s ankle and foot had been wrapped for him to walk with a bit of a limp and little pain though Imalia still sat uncaring of the twinge in his shoulder. It’s been a tiring day, hasn’t it?

The journey sat quiet for a while, the two of them exhausted from the previous day with no rest given that it led them joyfully to a small river. There’s a serene babble as the water rushes against mossy stones. Birds tweet overhead and clouds sat hidden beyond the treetops giving everything below a comforting glow from the sun’s rays.

It’s beautiful… but cold. Dorian has made note of that a few times. It’s not like they could do anything about the cold. Then again, with fur at his shoulders, thanks to the companion at his side, he couldn’t complain too much… he had to bite his tongue eventually.

“You owe me a better explanation than what you pulled last night. What are the Wardens to you?” Dorian’s begrudgingly pulling off his boot and sock to slip his ankle into the cold water. No matter how much he hates the cold, it feels so nice on the throb of his ankle.

“I traveled with them for a while. I was rather close with a lot of them”

“Mmhmm,” Dorian replied, “They treated you well, I see?”

“Oh yes,” Imalia smiles softly, slipping a hand under his armor to press a cold, wet rag to his bruised shoulder. “It was a pleasing experience. Sad in the end, however.”

“Oh? Tell me about it.”

“I came across the troop a little after the Blight. Their Commander was quite the handsome Reaver. His lieutenant was just as beautiful.” He shrugs, “They called him the Black Wolf of Wildervale and he led one hell of a pack. His wardens were a tough group of highly trained barbarians.”

He’s invested now, chewing mindlessly on chapped lips as he focused on the older Marcher, “What about the _beautiful_ lieutenant?”

“When he passed—sadly to resistance here in Ferelden once the Wardens had been blacklisted, his title fell to her. The Spring Wolf of the Green Dales, is what they bestowed upon her. A bulky tank of a mage, she was, but she taught me so much while I was with them—things I couldn’t learn in the circle.”

“…Like?”

“The lasting bits of my training and…” He watched the younger mage hunch forward to catch his gaze, “ _Shape-shifting._ ”

A brow arches with the scoff Pavus gives. He’s not surprised a mage like him has gone out and broadened his horizons, but wouldn’t that make him a hedge mage? He scrunched his lips, “I’ve learned a lot on southern circle mages—you _did_ pass your harrowing, yes?” A subtle topic change, not that Imalia seems to mind. He almost expected it.

“I passed it with flying colors, so yes.”

“So… I doubt your people were okay with you just learning hedge magery. After speaking with other circle mages, that isn’t quite something taught is it?” It’s nothing like Tevinter here. Shape-shifters are still given that nose wrinkle as if shifting in public was the same as having relations with an animal, but at least they were _common._

Imalia snorted, a side smirk curling at his lips, “You’d have a heart attack knowing that’s not even the start of it.”

“Be very surprised, my dear man.”

He adjusts himself beside Dorian, leaning forward to rest his forearms onto his thighs, “Knight Enchanters are fairly normal in my family. You learn very young and there are hopes that you keep with it. Tribal markings are given after you receive your first weapon of choice.”

“And where is your marking? Is it this one?”

A soft noise comes from Imalia as soft fingers dance across the branded dots tattooed under at the corner of his left eye. A part of him wants to move into it, find comfort in calloused hands; instead he mentally shakes his head avoiding the thought and grabs Dorian’s fingers, “That’s the one, but not the only one I have.”

Dorian’s brow quirked as he pulls his hand free from Imalia’s just to run a skinny digit around the curve of the tattoo, “More, are there? Hm… Does that mean I get a private showing of the rest?”

Painted nails scratching at inked throat, Imalia’s breath hitched, keeping his voice low, “Absolutely. Whenever you want.”

“Keeping things…” He kicks himself for pushing this a bit too far, “ _tame,_ which ones can you show me?”

Imalia holds up a finger before he shrugs off the white overlay of his armor with a gentle series of clicks from the chainmail that lined his arms and a silent wince. Once free from the leather of his light armor, his biceps sat bare but lined with pallid scars and black ink that sat somewhat depressed into his skin. Circles— _familiar_ circles. No. **_Runes_** on both arms. Wrists upward towards, Imalia rocked backwards to seat himself on his legs, kneeling comfortably. Dorian, on the other hand, couldn’t keep his hands to himself, those skinny fingers back to running up damaged skin in curiosity of _if_ the runes lit up at the touch or if they were there for show. Sadly no show of sparking energy...

“I’ve been training to become a Knight Enchanter since I was a boy. I had always seen the tattoos on my cousins and desired to one day reach the skill they had to protect my kin.” Here and there, the ink had been laced with very little amounts of lyrium to keep the runes connected to _his_ preferred magic rather than be a booster for anyone else. “It’s a ritual brand of my family—hurts like hell to get. The ones at my wrists were far easier to get.”

Mage script sat around his wrists with entwined runes that held no connections to the larger set that coated both arms. From what it looked like, they were both small sentences or a word that connected back to the beginning all the way around and decorated with runes and insignias. He said those were for manipulation of non-magical weaponry pieces. Warrior Enchanters could use the hilt of any sword. Archer Enchanters could use any bow in order to shoot their arrows. And dual Enchanters could wield any knife whenever they pleased. Something as small as a spell literally in their palms made Marcher shock toopers devastating in battle. Any broken weapon was made anew as long as they held their dominant hand.

And Dorian sat intrigued, his mind had turned completely from the dull ache in his ankle as he turned to Imalia, hands still skimping over the raised and lowered areas of older mage’s skin. Things like this could be normal in Tevinter, but… barbarians know their way around fighting—mage or not.

“What about this one?” His hands had reached for the Marcher’s throat, tugging down the ruffled fabric around his neck to peek even further.

That granted a chuckle from the Enchanter as he pulled Dorian’s hands away, “That one goes down lower. I’ll show you that one another time.”

“Tell me about it anyway.”

“It’s not traditional, but my younger brothers and I all share similar ones. We got them out of boredom.”

The necromancer tilts his head, “Brothers? You and Trevelyan aren’t the only ones?”

“She’s my _god-sister,_ but I take care of her just the same. She just refused to get it too.” Imalia smiles, “I have three brothers. The youngest two are twins and I love them dearly.”

“…And the other one? Older? Middle?” That smile is gone and his eyes seem focused on the grass for a moment. The sight of him so serious almost took Dorian off guard. Had he gone too far? Brought up old memories? _Shit._ Just as he started to make his way in, he felt as if he had thrown it all away at the same time. “Imalia?”

He sighs, “Sorry. I just—I donno. He and I don’t get along. At all. As the eldest, I take care of my brothers… for him… if someone told me his head was on a pike being fed to rabid ogres, the death would be too humane for him.”

Dorian shrugs the brown fur closer around his neck and huffs. This had gone so far off track of their original conversation that almost made him feel bad. Yet, he gives Imalia a second glance whom seemed to have gathered all that benevolence back into his eyes, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What made you learn Necromancy? You don’t seem the type.”

Change of subject. Back to the beginning. Very good. “Me?” His brows furrow with feigned offence, “I am insulted, my dear man. What kind of mage _do_ you see me as?”

“Not a necromancer.”

“Call me a blood mage and I will strike you.”

Imalia shakes his head, “Nothing near a blood mage. You don’t seem the type to get your hands messy. Then again, after what you did last night? That definitely changed my outlook.”

Scrunching his lips, Dorian’s removed his other boot and sock and rolled up his trouser leg to shove his feet back into the water. Again, he could complain about how cold the water was, but it felt nice. “Necromantia is a skill they only see in morticians and apothecaries and I intend to make it a battle art.”

“It _is_ a battle art.”

“But not one back home. Like I said, it is a _trade_ skill. It helps morticians prep bodies and detectives find murderers. I intend to make people fear me. Nothing is sexier than a man quivering at your feet.”

The blush is faint ‘pon Imalia’s tan cheeks as he passes Dorian a wink, “You intend to make me quiver, Pavus?”

To which Dorian scoffs, biting his lip in hopes to stop himself, “Only if this is your way of offering?” The Marcher shrugs, “What a tease you are, Imalia. I shall keep your offer in mind.”

 

* * *

 

They made it to camp before nightfall. Passing remarks, mostly from Varric and Bull noted that the two would have made it to the camp or back to Haven alive, but decorated in the treasures of their enemies… as if the rogue Templars had anything worthwhile. _But the Venatori…?_ That gave Imalia a smile. He’d gladly snatch some of that gold away from those spellbinders.

Alas, that was earlier when the camp was teeming with activity before people slowly drifted into tents or passed out in front of the fireplace. Dorian was surprised Imalia had succumbed so late. Thought he would have napped when they got there as he did. Yet, the mage does look quite peaceful, wrapped in the fur that sat at the necromancer’s shoulders from earlier.

It had been such a long day.

“It’s good to hear someone took you two in last night.” The Herald wiggled her silver flask before him. Dorian raised a hand and she pulled it back, “I hope he didn’t freak you out too bad with that weird shifter bullshit.”

He gives a mystified expression, head tilting at the word ‘ _shifter._ ’ She almost said it with disgust. Licking his lips, Dorian parted his lips in hopes that something coherent would follow, “He has mentioned it, yes… What brings you to ask, My Lady?”

Trevelyan snorted, tipping the mouth of the flask to her lips, “Oh then you’re bound to see it eventually, but there was no reason. It really... spooked me the first time I saw it.”

Dorian makes a mental note on that, watching him snuggle deeper into the small fur blanket, “Quite. Say, Trevelyan?” She looked at him, “Something came across me as odd last night in something he said.”

“How odd? I can list a numerous amount of stupid things he’s said…”

“Not idiotic, no. He said, ‘I am a soldier first and a mage second.’ What exactly did he mean by that?”

Alessana sat silent for a moment, closing the lid of her flask with a soft click. With a sigh, she rolled her shoulders forward and pulled her legs close to her chest the best she could, “Oh. Yes. That has been conditioned into him. His side of the family _breeds_ warriors. Mages don’t really have a choice in what they want to be, especially with him. His old man is a Knight-Captain who demands the best from his boys.”

“So they force mages into a position they do not wish to be in?”

The Herald sighs, “They don’t really have a choice. My father is what they call a Sage. He may have been built to _be_ a warrior, but he is a healer of their clan. He chose that over tranquility. Those are their choices. His side of the family is predominantly Templar and mage—and there are a _lot_ of mages.”

“Something feels like I will not like whatever comes next…”

“Probably not.”

Dorian huffs, folding his legs—criss-crossed, “Go on.”

“The mages… don’t quite _act_ like mages. Not in Hercinia, at least. The old tribes are very traditional and bounce the same ideals off of each other. For them? They are either healers, shock troopers for the Templar Order, or… tranquil.” Her voice lowers as she sits up, back resting against the tree behind them, “You see what he chose.”

“Freedom?”

“Yes, actually… and there is a drastic penalty for it if they get their hands on him. He **_will_** be rehabilitated or left to burn like the witch he is.”

He doesn’t mean the narrowed gaze focused on the young Herald. _Witch?_ Without a thought, she had labeled Imalia as a **_witch_** as if she couldn’t see him as a mage either. Dorian bit his lip, resisting the urge to comment on that one thing.

**_WITCH._ **

The time spent at his side, Dorian saw nothing but a bright sparkle in his smile and a wrinkle in his corners of his eyes. He held strength in his magic and intelligence in his mind—does it go to waste once they catch him? Do they reduce him to an emotionless, hunched over man, drooling and waiting for someone to put him out of his misery? They must be mad!

Dorian rubs at his temple with his thumb and ring finger, “Even the good ones are damned into an ending like that?”

“If you know how to distance yourself, yes.”

“What do you mean by that? He is a good friend—hasn’t spat on me yet.”

It takes a moment for her to answer. Taking to her feet, Alessana crosses her arms, “I’d say don’t get too deep into a ‘friendship’ with him. You deserve better. For him, friends disappear. Lovers die. He’s a soldier, Dorian, not a lover. It won’t last.” She gives a curt bow, “Good night. Get some sleep. We’ve got a long week.”

The squeeze at his shoulder brought no reassurance to his mind. Dorian knew his curiosity had gone much too far into a territory he should not have stepped into. This was a man he held light fancy for and all of it just put an awful turn in his stomach. Does he bring it up to Imalia or does he attempt to push it to the depths of his mind as if he had no idea it had ever been mentioned? He sighed. Trevelyan was right—he needed some type of sleep to tackle on facing the Breach. Oh how these days will drag on.


	5. In your heart shall burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame work for me being a bit late on everything. I usually try to stay a chapter ahead of things, but right now. You guys are actually keeping up _with_ me. lmao
> 
> Enjoy!

Then the Maker said:  
"To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:  
In your heart shall burn  
An unquenchable flame  
All-consuming, and never satisfied.  
From the Fade I crafted you,  
And to the Fade you shall return  
Each night in dreams  
That you may always remember Me."  
_~Threnodies 5:7_

* * *

 

“You need to take care of yourself a little bit more. Life would be very dull without you around.”

It felt nice to be back in Haven, even if it had been watching the Knight change without a care in the world. Lady Montilyet had issued a party in celebration of the Breach’s closure. Thedas was safe—or at least as safe as it could have been. And at first, the party sounded nice. The music echoed across the grounds, teeming with the interlaced noise of boisterous laughter and ruckus merriment. It was nice… until the drunks showed up.

It’s always the drunks.

He felt a bit bad for Imalia stepping in as he did, using that massive height of his to stare down the drunkard ready to swing on the younger necromancer. Yet instead… he simply… snorted and spat a black mess of saliva and tobacco into the mage’s face then collapsed to the floor, leaving the red head in nauseated disgust. A quick bath later, and a switch of clothing, Dorian found himself stuck back in Monette’s cabin, taking in the view of messily stitched scars and the rest of those tattoos.

_What beautiful tattoos…_ Blackwork lined everything from the neck down to the midpoint of his upper chest and back. Thick lines of tribal curls and angled points covered his skin and connected into the additional bits of the runes sleeves at his arms and the one at his spine. A _dragon’s_ spine, he said it was. One etched in with detail that tied into the base of his necks tattoo and ended right at his tailbone. However it sat a bit gnarled with the runes ‘pon the back of his right bicep – an old burn scar, one massive and stretched, is what it looked like. The rest sat under his markings as if the lot of them came years prior.

Imalia glances back, “Me? I do take care of myself, thank you.”

“Not with all these little scars, Imalia.” The lines are almost hypnotizing, but hearing that soft lull of his friend’s accent pulls Dorian back into reality. He sits down the bottle of wine they shared and pressed his hands against the barbarian’s back, feeling the ripples of horizontal lines that stood more apart from the burns and occasional deep gashes that healed inward. “I could care less if you call yourself a soldier, but even a soldier knows his limits.”

A playful shove and he can hear Imalia chuckle before slipping the black undershirt over his head. Dorian follows closely behind, grabbing the bottle of wine once again, but halting in his footsteps. There was a subtle, metallic crunch under his boot. Glancing down, he placed the bottle back to the wooden dresser and took a knee to the floor. A ring sat under his boot, one familiar as if he had seen it before. Taking it into his fingers, he studied it. Silver little thing it was with a griffon adorned upon the top and a worn insignia along the sides. However what stood out the most was one thing:

_‘In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.’_

Had Blackwall left this behind? It wasn’t as if they weren’t acquainted. Or had this been one of the gifts he had received when he traveled with them? No… this looks too important to simply have been bestowed as a gift. Sounded silly for them to have shaken his hand, patted him on the back and called him an honorary Grey Warden— _unless…_

Dorian stands his ground, features scrunching in displeasure. Dorian could feel his nose tingle from how angry he was. _How dare he?_ “Tell me the truth right now. Back at the farm, when you introduced yourself to Lady Tallmadge as a _Warden,_ you claimed that it was a slip of the tongue, yes? So answer me this: are you or are you not one of them?”

“ _Them?_ Dorian what are you—?” He’s silent for a moment once he turns to give his friend his full attention.

Brows knitted, the ‘Vint held the ring up between the two of them. The small thing almost trembled in his fingers as he slowly pieced things together. In an odd way, he’s been tattling on himself this entire time. Imalia had been lying through his teeth since the beginning and only recently had it been _noticeable._

“ ** _Answer me,_** ” Dorian demands now shoving the ring at him.

Seeing that emotion wash through his features left the other mage with his mouth agape and eyes wide; Imalia doesn’t know where to start. Yet he just holds onto man’s hands, feeling him jerk them away angrily, “I can explain—”

_“—Then start.”_

The taller one sighs, casually slipping the ring on to a ringless finger. Is it an embarrassing situation? Of course. Is he still at a loss of words? Well, he’s trying to get pass the stuttering coming from his lips. “Alessana doesn’t know. No one knows aside from you. Cowardice led me to them—I had nowhere else to run when I left Hercinia. I met them passing through a village on my family’s territory and I just… gave in to the want to escape. They didn’t see me as anything less than human.”

“And this made you want to join? Their ‘holier than thou’ personality did not push you away?”

“I never met anyone like that. They were all kind to me. I shan’t lie to you, but I was horrified the entire time. They helped me cover my tracks to avoid headhunters and Templars.” Imalia shrugs, “I joined swallowing my fear knowing I could not go back home. I couldn’t return back to Markham either. To the Circle I could be a mage on the run, but the moment I’m captured? That’s solitary confinement. If I’m caught by the headhunters? I’ll be dragged back home and dunked in a pool of holy water until the bubbles stop because that’s how _Witches_ are re-educated.”

Dorian parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes. In the back of his mind, all that echoes is what he was told from Trevelyan just a week prior. It doesn’t sound any better of a choice when Imalia frowns confession. Either accept death or, what the other option sounded of, _torture._ “I will ask you this one last time. Be honest with me or I walk—who are you, _really?_ ”

Eye contact is given this time, “Formally: I am Warden-Commander Eien-Imalia Celeste Monette, the Red Wolf of Hercinian command. I’ve led my team for seven years after taking over when our second commander succumbed to her Calling. Technically I was supposed to be given my promotion and a team before that, but I was settled on being her Constable. We didn’t expect the end to come.”

“Is that all?”

“Unless you have more questions, then yes.”

Dorian looks away, misty gaze holding a galaxy disturbance in his eyes. He’s hurt more than he is angry for he’s never been one to handle lying well. Makes people hard to trust even when they believe it to be a way to protect others. “Why did you hide this? You are proud of what you are and what you have accomplished—why?”

“It… wasn’t a secret. Alessana wasn’t supposed to know. That’s it.” He rustles away a few stay bangs and crosses his arms, “My family is very anti-Warden. My mother’s side believed that Wardens consist of nothing but non-believers and blood mages. My father sees them almost the same with the occasional ritualistic sacrifice and abuse of power to protect criminals. It’s nothing like that. Those who seek redemption are free to join until the law takes them. We may be above _most_ law, but we appease where we can. And then…”

Dorian quirks a brow, arms crossed over his chest, “And then?”

“You.” He watches the mage’s head tilt, “All those other little things I’ve told you were true. I _am_ here to be your friend, but listening to how you treat Blackwall? The organization as a whole? I didn’t want _this_ to happen. I just… wanted to protect our friendship.”

“I…  I’m sorry,” Dorian mumbles, dumbfounded and cheeks red from embarrassment. How could he allow his anger to just… _jump_ like that? Dorian can’t think straight. Even with the frustration still laced strong in his voice, he could apologize, but this was not the time for that. Though the man claims his actions were no secret and he did lie to him when he attempted to cover it up.

“Please don’t be,” replies Imalia. “I should have been honest at the beginning.”

Not even a moment of silence comes before there’s a muffled _boom_ in the distance. Masked by the excitement, the two of them made no sudden moves. Could be fireworks. Could be Bull and Cullen testing the trebuchets. Yet another comes among the hard pauses and then another spaced out a bit too far from the others. Those weren’t fireworks…

A rap at the door startled them as it pushed the door open with a creaking swing, a young scout peeking in with panic in her eyes and bow tight within her grip, “Lady Trevelyan has issued that all companions and all advisors gear up immediately.” She pauses to catch her breath, “Something— _Someone_ has launched an attack on Haven. We must get the people evacuated immediately.”

She bows once – twice – thrice as she backs out of the cabin leaving the two of them to their own thoughts. Luck just seems to get them at the right moments, doesn’t it? First the farm, now this? What an adventure this Inquisition leads. Alas, Dorian stared at Imalia for a moment. Standing in a difficult moment, neither of them knew what to say or do. They were to gear up, yes? Help evacuate? _Oh dear…_

“You should come clean. Take this as an opportunity.”

“ _Now?_ ”

“Why not now? You must! What if something happens further on down the line? What if you can’t hide it anymore!” Dorian pauses, peering over his shoulder as he stepped from the door, “ _Do it,_ Imalia.”

Imalia wants to strike something for being so clumsy. He wants to feel the throb of something else that wasn’t a twinge of unhappiness in his chest. Alas he sighs with his gaze turned down and nods in silence. No matter what, he quested for something on the lines of a friendship from someone while he was there and with Dorian’s heated glare burning a hole into him, he couldn’t say no. Not to him, at least.

* * *

 

Don your armor and no one suspects a thing. Blades have been raised and bows been nocked. What they thought would have come from the Breach, now came as an army of crystal red beasts. Within minutes, all of Haven had fallen to the thick smell of explosives and smoke. Able bodied men and women had shouldered on their armor and sat in lines that guided hoards of panicked masses to the Chantry in attempts to keep them somewhere safe until they could lead them far from the battlegrounds out front.

Screaming came from left and right as they ran frantic from the beasts that made it over the barrier walls, snarling and dripping with thick saliva. No one wanted to stay around long enough to grant whatever creature lie in wait a longer look.

Within the warmth of the chantry, the chattering of the townsfolk rang in worried fear as many glanced around the room looking for their other. Some bounced, jumping up and down to look over the heads of their fellow village dwellers, screeching out names behind choked tears. The anguish was strong here; of course, the sounds of agony gave that away. Near the doors, Trevelyan spun around doing a head count and hoping everyone had safely made it in.

“…’Malia?” His uniform sat different than any normal blue that his brothers bore. His was _white_ with little graying undertones, but it was clean nonetheless. Staff at his back and a silver sash lined with gold ribbon sat looped around brown belt adorned with little trinkets and pouches and a sword sheathed neatly at his waist. Her calloused digits combed the silver scale mail of his armor before gripping that of the pointed ridges of the griffon that sat perched ‘pon his upper bicep. Gritting her teeth, she pulled at his sleeve, and all he did was shake his head, no words shared. They didn’t need any shared. The look was just enough. “I need warriors,” she finally continued, never letting her gaze lift from Imalia, “You too, Solas. I need a healer. The rest of you get them out of here. As far as you can.”

Not a second glance from the ex-Templar Commander as he pulls the Herald away, her green hues never once ripping away from him. Imalia felt… cold. Her stare kept screaming “ _TRAITOR_ ” more than it proclaimed him to be a liar. That stigma towards the Grey Wardens laced every ounce of their family and he hated it. They weren’t bad people. They were the forgotten, the outcasted, the ones left behind, and the ones seeking redemption.

They were good people… just some were laced with bad histories that haunt them forever.

He flinches at the soft touch to his shoulder, head jerking to catch the tired expression an older bearded man, another bedizened in heavier armor adorned with griffons ‘pon his chest plate. Imalia sighed and Blackwall squeezed.

“I heard them,” he started, voice low—deep and gruff. “Those people you came in with all those months ago? They called you ‘Commander’. Thought it was funny that a group of mercenaries would call their boss that.” He chuckles, “Didn’t think you’d come clean so soon.”

There’s a ghost of a smile, “A terribly kept secret, huh?”

“Either way,” Blackwall pulls Imalia to face him, hand held out between them, “It’s good to know I’ll have my brother at my side.”

The Commander is hesitant at first before he grabs Blackwall’s hand, bringing his free hand to his chest in a tight fist. A curt bow follows as hands release, “To war then, brother? We have a job to do.”

 

* * *

 

They had only met once, to see each other again—well, that was unfortunate. The older Chancellor staggered through snow and mud with a pained limp and shallow breath. No matter how much of an annoyance he was, no one deserved a slow death as his. Imalia doesn’t doubt that the man wouldn’t live to see the next sunrise. What a sad way to go…

They had gotten out of Haven with his aid, the Chancellor helped lead those helpless through mazes of shuttering rubble as explosives hit the chantry’s walls and trebuchet hits smashed through rickety ceilings. Out of everything that had happened within the last months, none of them expected something as grand as _this._ Whispers called it an invasion of jealous warriors wanting the hole in the Herald’s hand. Other’s called it betrayal of the Templar Order—and that’s the rumor that brought fear to the people. Those who marched were women and children and mages too weak to fight as hard as their older apostate counterparts, but they tried. They tried to hold their worth the best they can in a hell none of them were trained to take part of.

They were children; the groups of them were… no child deserves to start off their lives like this. Imalia knew that.

“They must learn how to protect themselves,” the Warden started. “It’s a terrible way to learn, yes, but this is experience. They will be taught properly later.”

Another bang brought a harsher tremor to cavern walls, bringing grey, molded stones crackling and then falling to the old stone floor in loud clattering. People screamed, hands over their heads and children clinging to their parents in tears and dismay as they all formed into a large crowd unmoving at the exit. A scan over to Dorian and one returned to him, brows knitted. Why had they stopped? This cave wasn’t big enough to stay in to keep them _all_ in safely. Too many stalagmites for that idea.

Soft excuses and gentle presses through the huddled crowd, it seemed as if there was no end to the sea of disgruntled townies and angry mages who stood motionless aside from the casual shoving from the others around them.

Commands are barked at the mouth of the cave and a hand is raised high in attempts to push the anxious crowd back. The lasting bits of the Companions shouldered through as they listened to Cullen bellow out words over the yells of those behind them.

The front must be cleared in order for them to push forward, but no one seems to listen. A mage snorts and slams a shoulder into the blond Commander, shoving his way past the lines of protection and readied shields just to laugh and be greeted with an arrow to the chest. Even over the echoes of voices, the impact of that wooden arrow thudding into the flesh of the young man sent a well deserved chill down their spines.

The enemy waits outside these cavern walls and it almost felt as if they were trapped. No way to go back and no way to go forward. Outside would lead them into an ambush and returning would eventually lead them to death, be it inside a collapsed tunnel or whatever lay outside.

Cullen huffs and glances back at the group before muttering something under his breath, “We need a distraction to keep them _off_ the villagers.”

“Some of these mages have potential,” Imalia piped up, “If you keep them on the edges of the groups along with able bodied fighters, they can do _something._ ”

Vivienne scoffed, holding her staff close to her bosom as she eyed the Warden, “They are **_untrained,_** darling. Having these apostates and non-Harrowed mages take up aid will get us killed.”

“…But not allowing them experience is going to keep them alive? ‘First you must strike before you can determine if you are worth being called a warrior.’” He shrugs, “As a Marcher, Madame, I would assume you’ve heard such a quote. You don’t have authority to tell them they can’t fight for their own survival.”

Green eyes rolled, “Yet I do have a voice in announcing that they are not strong enough.”

Hands at his hips, the Lion Commander frowned, “Despite my own disapproval, Lady Vivienne, he does have a point. We need all the help we can get. One team to distract. One team to stick with the pack and help move.”

Splitting up was fairly easy with the very little held among their teams. Cullen manned the townspeople with a crack team of mostly archers while the others, grouped with a handful of mages and scouts stepped up to fight back what swarming mass of beasts snarling and snapping their gums in their direction. The fear quaked through those inexperienced mages with trembling staves and young barely taught warrior’s building their shield walls with slight tears in their eyes and soft prayers. At this point they knew some of them wouldn’t make it past the front line, a lot of them may not see the sun rise over the mountains.

Artless as many of them were, they held their ground better than expected. With arrows flying in their direction, shields were brought up as walls rather than invisible guards coating their bodies. Would be nice if the frontlines had something so easy to push back enemies. With Varric keeping Bianca on track of her targets, bypassing helmets with ease, and Blackwall holding no problem on cleaving through the weak armor of these red lyrium coated monsters, Dorian and Imalia had to hold their own the best they could.

Every attack struck into the ground seemed to raise spikes and shards of red. Some rose in clumps, bleeding through the snows once pure blankets and others sunk back in, still leaving damaging sights of deep holes of frozen mud or stone. If there was anything that came out of this, it was Varric barking out demands of “ _Do not ingest the red lyrium!_ ” As if any of them has a mind to do so in the first place.

No matter how far away from it Imalia and Dorian pushed themselves from it, they could feel it ebbing away in harsh whispers and nauseating churns that almost (keyword: _almost_ ) knocked them far from their goal of pushing back these creatures… Even if being as close to these crimson rocks were starting to get to them. Magic was strong here within those rocks despite these beings being that of once normal men.

If these were once Templars, they weren’t anymore. They weren’t even people anymore. Months prior, they had heard of stories of demons crawling from the rifts and shrugged the idea of it off before actually _seeing_ it happen. Yet as their days went through, never once had they ever heard stories mentioning _them._ Deformed. Mutated beyond humanity. They stood hunched, lyrium caking their limbs in blood red stone and bubbling in casts of crystal on their backs. It’s hard to tell that these were once human at one point. Now they were tortured. Rendered useless. Tainted… but human somewhere down in the depths of what they are now.

Even those still bearing humanly physique looked as if they would collapse to their death eventually. Washed out to graying skin and darkened, exposed veins running along their skin like vines on tree bark. How were these men and women still alive with all this strain on their bodies?

T’is a question to leave unanswered as they take notice that none of them are ready to fall just yet. Not as easily, at least. Though there stands more man than beast, the group had been able to best the most of them with ease. The groups seemed scattered and too deep within their own corrupted minds that all they can focus on is eradication—even if it means taking themselves out.

Men bellowed in anguish as white purple streaks pulled from the ground, tethering them in sparks of chained electricity, jumping from one to the other before being greeted with a flash of melting heat and a rumble of explosive energy that sent enough of them flying each and every way in pieces. It always feels nice to meld magic so drastically with another to bring about destruction. Always brought a smile to Dorian’s lips.

Yet, with a pivot in his step and a swing of his staff, nothing came from that second pull. No electricity raised the hair on his arm and no satisfaction came from the connection of power colliding with whatever being stood before him. There. Was. _Nothing._ And it brought panic to him for a moment before abandoning his staff into the snow and reaching out, fingers splayed and ready to cast anything—alas… **Nothing.** Nothing but pain shooting up his arm in a fashion of his own magic rejecting _him._

This… this isn’t supposed to happen! Dorian was an **_altus!_** A proud, noble blooded Tevinter **_MAGE…!_** And there he stood virtually powerless in a literal sense and too frozen to make his next move. _What had happened to him?_ Wide, cloudy hues scan the area in a rush of dismay and confusion, looking around towards the mages further back still able to hurl little fireballs and ice spears past them, but he nor the man beside him could do anything.

However there was no trepidation on Imalia’s features as if this were _normal._ Truth be told, being silenced **_was_** normal. The rejection hurts every time, and feeling that lingering tingle that burns in a Warden’s gullet is something that _must_ be ignored. It makes a man tired, feeling so many Templars weighing down on you with a purge that wipes everything that you are away. The Warden didn’t even think twice about how it must feel to Dorian the first time through. Yet a silent gaze passes over to the necromancer, his hand slowly falling and eyes focused on the rushing warrior.

There may be no chance of him slipping the man up with magic, but he still has a bit of vigor left in his legs. Imalia dips low, arms wide to wrap around the man’s waist as he scooped the Templar and cascaded with him into the snow. Grey veined hands pushed at the scarred cheeks of the red-headed mage, gasping for air and scrambling for a grip that would not come as Imalia pushed him deeper into the snow, hands clamped tightly around the man’s neck awaiting the feeling of a satisfying pop that left arms limp and eyes glossy.

Wisps of white floated from the older mage’s lips as he came to a wobbly stand. Always felt weird when Templars took their attention off of a mage. Waves of energy came flowing back in a sickening rush that left their stomach rolling, but they had to prevail. Take a nauseating sip of lyrium that would eventually make them sick afterwards, but it was well needed to get them back in motion and heading back to the rest, even if they were dead last in catching up.

That didn’t mean they were rid of all of their red, encrusted friends, however.

Dorian couldn’t find his feet. Still so disoriented from the shake of it all, he just felt so… insignificant. An Altus mage made powerless was basically a slap in the face. Might as well piss on him and leave him in the gutter if his magic was gone. Yet, with an arm thrown around his partner’s shoulders, he could hear that soft mumbling of reassurance.

_“It’ll be okay. We’re gonna make it safely to the camp. Your magic is fine. You’re **fine.** ”_

**_Fine_** was an understatement. **_Fine_** was knowing this wouldn’t drastically affect his abilities as a damn good mage. **_FINE_** was knowing that Dorian Pavus did not need someone to carry him out of a battle, for he was no damsel in distress… thought now, even that was silly to ignore. He needed the help. That moment simply placed a damper on his mood.

  _Get it together, Pavus._

…But he’s so tired.

“ _I can catch up…_ ”

“ _Stick close with the scouts at least…_ ”

Before Dorian knew it, he felt a shuffle of hands grace his arms and something aiding him onto something flat. ‘ _Smells of wet dog,_ ’ he could only think when it felt like his mouth was filled with cotton. Must be a side effect. Although, behind half lidded eyes, a flash of light could be seen and all he could hear was the snarling of a beast and clashing blades. He’s far too exhausted to see the end of a starting battle, but he hopes to see the sunrise come morn.


	6. Constellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll say it again, a hundred more times, crushes are really hard to write. Especially when the two who have the crushes are cold.
> 
> LOOKIN' AT YOU, DORIAN PAVUS. omg

Those who bear false witness  
And work to deceive others, know this:  
There is but one Truth.  
All things are known to our Maker  
And He shall judge their lies.

    _**Transfigurations 1:4**_

* * *

 

The sky sat black and open, free from stars to glitter across the land, gracing the moons in comfort. The end of times had come, but only for some as the dragons watched from afar in horror of what was to become of them. Creatures from all over marched to safety while others ran towards battle to greet the gory demise from a tainted god.

The serpent grieved. Though ripped from his home, those lands were his as they were his family’s… but they are long gone now. Smothered in ash that rained from the sky and destroyed by the plague that came from the liar of a corrupted power – all of it was gone.

“ _Amatus,_ ” the Dragon cooed, “ _Beings from outside our realm ruin us, but they cannot separate what is given._ ”

Years had come of their time together, a physical form given to creatures in the sight of Man—all of them varying in size, shape, and build. The Dragon was beautiful. Dark skin with golden plated scale ‘pon his cheek and honey colored eyes to match. It made the Serpent’s heart flutter at the sight of his sharp smile and slender figure. He was perfect.

“ _I do not understand,_ ” the Serpent tilted his head, white hair slowly falling over his shoulder, “ _What are these monsters trying to separate?_ ”

“ _Us, amatus, **us.** Our way of life is… not proper. I cannot lose you. They blame the Gods for how they see us, but the Gods brought you to me._”

Fingers, just a smidgen lighter graced the rippled cheek of his shorter other with a gentle smile, “ _This will not happen, carus. I swear to you. We will forever be one—or I will die staying at your side._ ”

 

* * *

 

Dorian groans, curling his legs closer in as the sounds around him lightened from muffled noise to clear speaking. Dreams are a messy thing. They replace the faces of puppets into those of living men simply to bring anguish to a strained heart. He’s always **_hated_** this god-awful story. As a boy the story played as a jest to normal romance stories made for children to love the stars and shown on street corners by puppeteers in the summer. As he grew older, Dorian found himself within the front row, serenaded by the handsome actor gracing that poise and beauty of the Dragon.

He sighs, pulling up what felt too heavy to be a cover further up his shoulders. Either his dreams have returned to haunt him or they attempt to replace a love for such a stupid story in means of ousting faces so a fancy could now sit as the Serpent and **_he_** was now the Dragon. He’d laugh at that if he could. There goes that word again— _fancy._ Better say it as it should be: **_a crush._** He’s a fool for following such a personal agenda.

Back in Tevinter, this would never do. In the back of his mind he could hear his father raving and swearing up and down the hallway about how he needs to settle with the perfect _woman_ and how he needs to bear an heir perfect enough to one day assume the Archon’s position of the sunburst throne. Shame he was never interested in all of that. Dorian wanted to peruse on his own and learn of a lover before bedding someone who’d probably end up being a literal praying mantis and eating his head after coitus.

Weirder things have happened in Tevinter…

Another sigh and he’s slowly opening tired eyes. It’s dark out. With a throb languidly pulsing at his temple, he finally sits up, hand pressing into the cot beneath to hold him stable. Had they made it somewhere safe? How long had he been out? It’s quiet—sans the soft snoring of those around him, all cuddled against each other, sharing what space they could of their cots. Now with his feet on the ground he felt queasy. A terrible idea with all that surging mana rushing through him again almost made him dizzy just sitting upright. With a little noise, Dorian flops back, this time hitting a little mound of soft.

The entire time of being awake (and sick) and he had not observed his surroundings. No blanket rested at his shoulders; instead lay covering his arms sat the upper layer of Imalia’s armor. It’s warm and reeks of Earl Grey and casual perfumes. How did he even get this if he and the barbarian had been split up before he passed out? Speaking of— _where was he?_ Among the napping masses, Dorian’s cot was the only one without a partner of some sort resting silently.

Truthfully, after the last push, he’s been with the advisers since Trevelyan arrived. With… _persuasion,_ Imalia felt as if he needed to explain his situation. Aside from the general fact that with the Herald being his kin, there was more to it.

“—Sent by the Anderfels? They can do that?” Cullen glanced over the Josephine whom in turn replied with a shrug.

“They aren’t allowed to enter another country with intent to fight something without permission from the Commander of that area or the Ander council themselves.” Leiliana sighed, “They must abide by rules set by those far above them, and the Ander people are their superiors.”

Imalia nodded, “If we do not come in times of war to aid our brothers, like during a blight, there will be consequences.” Strict rules also prevent travelling too far out of Warden reach when you’re the top tier Warden-Commander. Imalia has never once wanted to take anything farther than what he is now. At least with his position, it lets him travel and recruit without extreme limitations.

But brows knit with a head tilted from Leiliana, “So why not send the Hero? This is his homeland.”

“No one can find him. He disappeared somewhere around Antiva, but not even our own contacts can spot him”

Josephine finally chimed in with a hum, “So you stepped up?”

Imalia shakes his head, “As charming as that would sound, no. I was knee deep in dragon gore when they approached me. It was… a week or two after the breach had opened. I was literally on the Navarran/Tevinter border just a bit outside Hasmal. I had no idea it was _family_ sucked into this until I was briefed on it.”

Cullen stands silently for a moment, arms crossed over his chest and hip tilted to fixate his weight on one leg. The look on his face was suspicious, but curious. “Why hide your occupation from us? You’ve been with us for months and haven’t thought about mentioning it once? How can we trust you didn’t just steal the armor from another warden?”

“I’d explain why you shouldn’t do that, but that is classified.” Cullen frowns, but it is only answered with a subtle nod towards the unconscious Herald. “Didn’t want her to deny my help without cause. Their dislike runs deep on both sides of the family, however--” He pauses, looking for the right words, “I was told to announce it as I see fit, otherwise I needed to keep my mouth shut. I have paperwork that lists their knowledge of me and my own within Inquisition ranks and throughout the rest of Ferelden.”

Alas, Imalia is not the only one. There are more Marcher Wardens lurking about the scouts under his knowledge, but to keep them safe and out of the public eye was his full agenda. They were to be unspoken of until they deemed it safe to don their own armor.

“Another thing I’m a little thrown on is—you are a Commander, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“But you are not _the_ Commander of the Free Marches?”

“No, but I have beaten him in a fist fight four times. I was offered his position as Champion. Proper Marcher politics run deep within them.” Proper being, who ever survives the beating usually gets the crown.

Cullen’s frown still hasn’t left. “Thought there was _one_ Commander.”

“That would be silly. There are too many to handle. So areas are split into three to four contained areas where someone is left in command of that section and given liberties as their boss is above them.” Years put knowledge into Leiliana. She traveled silently at her best friend’s side, she ought to know something of the people that saved Ferelden from its demise.

“We’re just not… Hm.” Imalia bites his lip, “We are recruiters with a fancier title. The Commander of the Marches can lead us into war without aid from the Anderfels if absolutely needed, but I can only prep our fighters and teach. Leading into a full scale battle needs permission from the Warden-Commander and the Anderfels—which is what I have here. And that’s only on a need be basis.”

There’s another little pause before Imalia tacks on a, “If that makes sense…” It’s a lot of information to those who don’t know and he’s not surprised the Templar or Lady Montiliyet have never heard of such things. Secrets are something Warden’s cherish, but this was nothing like that. This was just something insignificant to most others. To him they still didn’t care. They just knew there was yet another warden within their midst aside from Blackwall.

At least… they knew? It didn’t bother him to keep things quiet for a while. Before these… _beings_ descended upon Haven, there was really no threat aside from the rifts that needed to be closed within the immediate areas and even those are slowly beginning to solve themselves. However, Dorian held a point. Even with keeping the information to himself they were bound to find out. Something odd would reveal who he was or he’d end up doing it willingly.

A soft sigh and he’s noticed his thoughts have dragged him back to the tents… back to the soft, tired features of another mage staring up at him, snug deep in his top armor. The tips of Dorian’s ears burned red just as the flush did on his cheeks and nose. A darling sight of a man who’s learned the intricate little zippers and buckles of the mage-specific armor just to bundle up the best he could.

“You toss your surcoat and shift into a bear?” His voice is muffled under that collar, doesn’t seem like Dorian is leaving from his warmth anytime soon… “Shame I missed that.”

There’s no answer given aside from a gentle scoff of laughter. He’s too exhausted for a witty remark and far too internally drained to fight the advisors of his own behavior. They’ll get what information they crave when he’s ready to give it, as for now, he’s just another helping hand until _his_ higher ups call him out. Dorian’s company helps the ease of mind, however. Imalia can’t seem to pull his thoughts away from whatever that surge of chaos was. He’s been so used to seeing the rotting, tainted remains of Darkspawn to the point of _seeing_ old allies fall prey to their own stubbornness.

The Calling is a harsh mistress and so many wish to ignore her beckoning when the time comes. To burn the marred remains of an old friend, aged far from what they were just weeks prior, their skin wrinkled and grey (or sometimes black and purple), became a normal sight to see. If not killed by their own, they went mad and took their own lives.

All of this was far too regular for him… whatever those creatures were— **_wasn’t._** Darkspawn have a stench to them that makes things easier for Wardens to tell between them and those within the beginning stages of becoming corrupted. _Those monsters were different._ They weren’t _Darkspawn._ Darkspawn are not crystallized in blighted lyrium and, _by the void,_ they sounded nothing like **_that._** Just the thought of it brought a shiver down Imalia’s spine.

Spittle was thick and nauseating at their disfigured mouths. Their snarling remained vivid to the Warden as he could clearly remember the sound of it when they grew close to strike him. Their voices sat distorted, doubled if anything, and battle cries rang of low, tortured agony. They wanted freedom somewhere deep in that lyrium-encased body of theirs, but every last beast was trapped with their souls stuck and never seeing the Golden City.

It… It honestly made him _ill._

Thoughts broken, he jumps at the subtle touch to his arm. The sleeves to his armor covered Dorian’s hands and the rest swallowed him into a warm embrace of fabric that was well needed up in these mountains. The Tevinter couldn’t even see how Imalia was handling the cold through the thin black fabric of his shirt that just barely sat past his elbow.

“Are you okay?” Hadn’t even been a full day (or had it? He’s losing track of time…) and Dorian had pushed that anger from his mind. Though the hours of pushing the survivors through and huddling for some type of camp, he’s just… ignored it. _Shit happens and then you die_ was his mentality about it. He could have spent days mulling over the fact that this man had lied to them all, but… Why even worry about it?

The feeling of Dorian’s warm fingers brushing against bare skin was alleviating. Helped him feel close to earth once more despite what was happening around them. Like everyone else, Imalia’s exhausted and needs to get off his feet for an hour… or eight. “I’ll… be fine. Got a little tummy ache, but that’s nothing too bad.”

Dorian followed him back into the tent in silence as others pushed towards the entrance in light commotion. Some gave relieved sighs and others give comforted smiles at the call of “ _The Herald is awake!_ ” A bit of a morale boost is what it felt like. Everyone found a reason to relax and utter light sounds of blessings and prayers as they crowded around to thank the Maker _she_ helped them survive another day.

The singing, however, came as a shock to almost everyone else. Varric nervously inched back into the tent with Bull shuffling away behind him. Vivienne closed her eyes with a smile, humming along with the rising voices and taking in the feeling of solacing bliss. This was the praise long avoided by Trevelyan finally accepted with a welcoming heart. Yet Imalia tugged at Dorian’s fingers with a gesture towards the back exit of the tent.

He, personally, couldn’t handle the sudden amounts of worship that appeared without warning. Almost made him far sicker than he was earlier. However, that’s something that won’t be brought up any time soon, lest he offends someone.

“To escape the singing, you head out for the cold and drag me with?” Dorian toes off a pile of snow from a long slab of stone, “Whatever made you think I’d come with?”

“Probably because the stars look better when there is no light.”

Curiosity brought Dorian to query further and that brought an honest smile. What happened in Marcher Circles were far different than that of Tevinter Circles, Dorian knew that, but to not be able to wander as one pleased just made it feel as if the lot of them had all driven themselves mad. He did question that out of blind wonder—Imalia ignored it.

“We had a garden midway up the tower and I would spend nights there just… stargazing.” There’s a gentle shift in his weight, “It became therapeutic for me.”

Dorian snorts, inching closer to the rather _tall_ Warden for warmth, “Back home a sentence like that would drop jaws. A Marcher Astrologist? You’re bound to give a nobleman a heart attack. Marcher Scholars still surprise them!”

“Learning about the stars and becoming _profound_ with the stars are two different things.” There was nothing else to do in the Circle _but_ read. And that he did. He read and memorized every little book given on every last little constellation. It’s all he had then – it’s all he cherishes _now._

“I suppose you have a point. Still something interesting. We grow up believing these little stereotypes of other areas and seeing some of them crushed is—well, it is quite the eye opener.”

Silence between them brings the hush of a breeze that pushes the snow across the stones and Dorian deeper into the surcoat. Though turtled, he finds himself staring at Imalia through the moment of silence, watching his mouth move but hearing no words follow.

 “Hm?” If his cheeks weren’t stained red from the cold, they were indeed heating up from light embarrassment. He hadn’t heard a thing the other man had said.

“There.” Fingers point in a vague area upward to a cluster of stars. Though Dorian is familiar with light astrology, he’s never been that good with pinpointing where each cluster. Imalia, however, seemed to know exactly where, “Do you see it?”

“What am I looking for, Monette?”

“Equinor,” he whispers, “the beautiful stallion made of stars.”

Lips part and eyes flutter in attempts to gather his thoughts. A part of him had not expected to hear that come out of his mouth. Dorian mentally prepared to hear something about how sparkly stars were the way to cleanse the mind. Perhaps he should stop with these assumptions. Out of the few red-blooded Marchers that stood proud of their heritage within the Inquisition, every little stereotype had been almost busted and then some. “I am surprised that you use the Imperium name for the stars.”

“It’s better than star horse or seated griffon…”

“Or _Halla._ ”

Imalia smiles, “See, much prettier.”

He’s terribly red at this point and unsure if it’s because of the smile or the cold. Instead he covers his timidity with a gentle chuckle, “I would be inclined to agree with you.”

Dorian’s staring up at him, slowly pulling himself from the warmth of the armored surcoat to chew at his own cracking lips. He can feel his heart pounding at the conflicting thoughts bouncing around in his head. He was still angry with Imalia… but the man did stay at his side no matter the cost in more than one situation.

But on the other hand, he had lied to him—lied to _all of them._ Dorian could forgive it, but… _Shit. **Get it together, Dorian Pavus!**_ With hands shaking (from the cold or anxiousness), something broke. His nose burns from the blush darkening his face and his heart leaves a flittering tingle in his chest. Fingers had gripped the black fabric of Imalia’s shirt and drug him down to his height. With another hand combing through tufts of red, he paused for nothing longer than a brief breath before pressing his lips against the Warden’s.

Had Imalia’s heart stopped at the sudden touch? His lungs had followed with it. He’s frozen in his movements, but almost enthralled at the feeling of it. Does he grab him and pull the necromancer closer? Does he push him away and assure himself this isn’t what he wants. A mental sigh and his gestures agree with the latter. One hand pulls Dorian’s hand free from his hair and the other is placed at his cheek to keep him tilted upward.

They shouldn’t be doing this – a shared thought betwixt the two. Dorian had received warning from Trevelyan. Then Imalia just didn’t seem as if he had ever been good enough… at least not for a man of Dorian’s standing. He is a barbarian through and through! No man of Tevinter nobility deserves someone as low as he… or that’s what he believed.

The Warden almost whimpers at the touch pulling from him, bringing that feeling of the mountain’s cold breeze to shoot between them. There’s no apology. No words shared and Dorian just steps away with his head low and face burning from heat.

To the two of them, despite how hearts felt, could only gather that this should have never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, that's a lot of chatter, but it's something and I'm proud of how it's going. :)


	7. Messy Little Apologies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I kinda just jumped into this and didn't really give them any substantial background. So I took about a week to learn how to properly write a flashback because you guys deserve quality... and kisses.
> 
> Annnnnd because I want them to smile at each other.
> 
> So please enjoy and thank Deadeyedraw for putting up with me and beta'ing my tired 2am madness.

In the long hours of the night  
When hope has abandoned me,  
I will see the stars and know  
Your Light remains.  
**_\--Trials 1:2_ **

* * *

 

They claimed it to be a friendly tavern, despite it being the _only_ tavern in the village. The people of Haven sat clustered around tables chortling and howling at stories that held no point and had no end yet were filled with drunken slurs and silly noises that just seemed to keep the locals on their toes. With the introduction of the Inquisition taking residence within the small hold of Haven, there were claims that the people were peaceful and the words they shared were kind. Imalia saw none of that.

Inside old oak walls, indeed did the regulars show and surround tables, but they did not speak as jubilantly as the Herald claimed. Templars sat slouched by the windows, far from the bar with their crest adorned on their armor and scowls on their war torn faces as they eyed the mage stepping into the old, creaking pub. The bard smiled at him, still strumming at her lute as she never let his presence falter her good mood and soft lulls. The locals stayed huddled, close to the exits and along the walls that kept them as close to the Templars as possible. It was almost as if he had never left the Free Marches—everyone was on edge about a mage… except he wasn’t the mage they were watching.

At the bar sat a man—alone. Short black hair and tan skin that appeared a bit darker than his own golden complexion, the man didn’t seem like much of a threat. Why had everyone locked their attention onto him? Like everyone in the room, he sat minding his own business, nursing a mug of whatever was served behind the bar.

So… _why?_

“Damn Tevinter…”

The mage’s ears perk at the not so subtle cursing, “Probably here to curse us all and lead his men to kill us.”

Another scoffs, “It’s just one fuckin’ blood mage. Y’ kill’em an’ no more intel to his blighted brothers.”

“Naw, what about the one in the cells?”

“Hang’em! Hang’em both! The fuckin’ drunkard can’t run too far away from us.”

Another man pipes in, voice a bit more heightened than the last, “What if he turns us into abominations?”

“T’is the price we pay for savin’ Ferelden from these roaches. Bastard is nowhere close to bein’ any type of loyal. Didn’t he drop his friend into the cells? We can handle one at a time.”

Still listening, Imalia saunters his way through the tables, making his way to the bar. A disloyal snake whos slithered much too far from home, huh? If he’s had such talents to raid this small village, wouldn’t his people have done it by now? From how he idly sits, head rested on his fist and the other skimming lightly through the pages of an old grimoire, there’s no threat emitting from him.

 _So, why were they threatened?_ Because he’s **Tevinter.** They are all monsters apparently, aren’t they? Untrue… that’s just… not true.

Slowly, the Marcher eases to the ‘Vint’s side, taking the empty bar stool beside him to request a bottle of brandy and two glasses. There’s a moment of unease behind him. The chatter of the men slowed to a stop and he could just _feel_ their eyes burning into his back. Fereldan’s may not have been as eager to fight something because it took a breath like Marchers, but their Templars were something to watch and avoid.

Once the glasses were sat upon the old bar, the red-head slowly inches one over then poured the brown liquid not even half-way into the glass—one for him and one for the ‘Vint.

“I need no pity from a barbarian, thank you.” No glance once at the drink, he’s still nose deep on the same page he’s been focused on since the Marcher had arrived.

“I was not aware that my actions were out of pity, Ser… _Pavus_ , is it?”

Pavus gives a little noise of irritation, as if Imalia had interrupted his reading. Skinny, ringed fingers dance the mouth of the massive mug, skimming between the book and the freshly poured, _spit-free_ drink. Out of all the muttering of the not-so-hushed voices of the Tavern goers, this one probably knew nothing of the “Evil” Magister that he was. Which he will eventually. And when that day comes, he’ll be just like them. Yet, for now, the feigned kindness was accepted as he nudges away the filthy mug and turns his attention to the Marcher who seemed to prop himself onto his elbows with a soft smile.

“And you are—Monette? Not a Trevelyan?”

“Related only by marriage, but if you want to get personal, Imalia is fine.”

There’s a chill that yanks Dorian free from his memories. The snow has brought him back to the harsh reminder that the beginning was almost several long months ago. Feels odd that it’s been so long since the both of them had joined—just a week apart from each other.

Yet it all sits interesting to the necromancer, no matter how much he reflects on the past, it always falls back to the same thing as of late… _Monette._ It disturbs him how kind he’s been since then. Nothing but smiles and long conversations that lingered well into the early morning over silly things, Dorian would be a liar if he said he hated those little things. Out of the time he had been there, he only made a couple allies—Imalia was a friend from day one.

Ever since the tavern… he couldn’t forget spending a blinded amount of hours at his side just listening to his voice, the intelligence that rolled from his lips.

He’s still wrapped up tight in the Warden’s coat, mind still locked on his own idiotic behavior from the night before. That kiss… it should have happened. It shouldn’t have… but it did. And the feeling of it burns in his heart with the belief that he had gone too far in his actions, but Dorian had not been pushed away. Imalia accepted it more than delivering an outright refusal.

_Why had Imalia not pushed him away?_

For the same reason Dorian pushed that instinct. Two moons had passed since it happened. The two of them kept their distance, lost within their own thoughts, and hoping that things could be brought back the way it was before the surprise of a breathless touch. All of it sat so sharp within his mind that the feeling of Dorian’s lips still left a tingle ‘pon his. A part of him wants to pull back, pretend it never happened and hope to continue through without becoming too invested. The other part demands another kiss—one longer and far sweeter than the first.

Eventually he’ll bring it back up.

* * *

 

“You, uh, listenin’ to that boy too?” Blackwall’s rasp is what yanked the Commander free of his scattered thoughts. Despite the how far Imalia had been within his own mind, the gruff rumble was surely something well needed to bring him back to Earth. “Kid ain’t right in the head if you ask me.”

“No, I wasn’t. What happened?”

“Seems to know too much of everyone. Not like how Solas seems to be Ser Know-It-All.”

The Marcher gives a hard glance forward. The boy Blackwall mentioned couldn’t have been anything more than sixteen or seventeen. He’s rather tall for a child. Lanky and pale, he had short, unkempt hair and sunken eyes as if sleeping wasn’t something he could do. The boy radiates that feeling of a socially awkward teenager just with the stress of every adult around him. Reminded him a little of himself, really.

“What does he claim to know?” Imalia can’t help but focus on the child, furthering his thoughts away from Dorian as he could, “He’s not spouting bullshit theories, is he?”

“I’d rather it be bullshit than knowing your most personal memories…”

“…Excuse me?”

“Girl in the yellow—made her cry, he did. Kept talkin’ about a dead lover? Friend maybe? They don’t know each other, but he knew everything.” Blackwall gives a visible shudder. “Magic doesn’t freak me out, but _that_ is freaky.”

It was as if the boy had been listening. There was no bounce in his step, no waiver in the brim of his hat as he glided over to the two of them. The two of them were almost stunned with the hopeful thought that he heard nothing of what Blackwall had said. They are really hoping he heard nothing…

Instead the boy looks up with big, wishful doe eyes that were brighter than the blue sky above. There were little pocks, scars, and acne that scattered his pallid skin and a faint hint of peach upon his nose. This was the boy who alerted everyone of the incoming attack, if Monette could remember. Never got the chance to actually see him as well as he did now.

He gave a slight nod of his head, the hat finally wiggling to life as he moved, “You two helped save the people—I remember you.”

“Aye, but we weren’t the only ones…?” There’s a shared look given between Blackwall and Imalia before the older Warden continued, “Were you watching the fight from the hill?”

The boy kicked at the mud and scarce snow at his feet, unsure of how to answer at first, “I felt it. One made of electricity, the other birthed of fire—they swing but feel no connection. _Silenced._ Men turned beasts, loud and snarling, march on, but steel is cleaved between elements. You saved them.”

“Warden Blackwall was only doing his duty.”

“Yes he was…”

Another glance was shared ‘twixt the two as Blackwall gives a soft sigh. With a hesitant pat, he places his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Come now. Enough of this. Tell us about yourself, kiddo.”

Just a bit further behind them, Dorian walked silently at Bull’s side as he spun another tale of his Chargers on some insane job for some nobody noble in ass-crack nowhere. He could hear the muffled chortle of Varric’s laugh ring over Krem’s words as he attempted to push away Bull. “ _He’s not tellin’ it right!_ ” is what he could pull out of it, but Dorian couldn’t find that excitement out of their casual joy.

Apparently that was too much for the Iron Bull. He pats Krem on the arm and gestures towards Varric, but with the other, gives a gentle push to Dorian. Large grey fingers press to his arm before draping over his shoulders. Almost feels reassuring with that squeeze he gives, pushing away from the crowd and hoping no one questions their little bit of quiet time.

“I bet you didn’t something stupid…”

Pavus huffs and squirms from under the welcoming arm, “No. Not entirely.”

“And here I thought you promised to be open with me.” The Qunari crossed his arms and nudged at the ‘Vint once more, “What did you do?”

“Back at Haven… I yelled at him and he still stayed at my side.”

“For what, exactly?”

“He lied to me—to _all_ of us.”

Bull grimaced, “Not a good enough reason to _yell_ at him.”

Dorian’s nostrils flared as arms crossed over his chest, “I do not do well with liars, Bull. He had full opportunity to admit to everything before all of this, and was busted over a mere ring?” He gives a small scoff, hands now moving upward to ruffle his own hair, “ _Kaffas!_ How could I be so… moronic!? I _knew_ he was up to something and I just shrugged it off!”

“Which probably hints that something in you wanted to value a little bit of his clandestine behavior…?”

Dorian waggles a finger at his friend, “No, no. Do not agree with what he’s done.”

“I mean, he’s a Marcher Warden entering _Ferelden._ Not sure if they kissed up to them after the Blight, but before then they weren’t quite liked here. I know well that enough people still look down on them normally. Probably had to stay low to stay _safe._ ” Shame he makes a valid point…

Dorian sighs, freeing himself from the high collar of the Warden’s jacket. He’s still wrapped within its engulfing warmth. Bull wasn’t supposed to throw logic his way; he was supposed to give something to stoke the fire of frustration. This man _lied_ to all of them! Could have been a sleeper agent this entire time! _It makes sense!_ Shows up out of the blue proclaiming he’s here only for her and befriends the **_‘Vint?!_** He’s probably using him as bait for the others to pay attention to so he can be the perfect downfall of the Inquisition! The armor he’s in is probably stolen!

 **_Breathe Pavus…_ ** _now you’re over thinking it._

The Qunari glowered, his eyebrows lowering as he turns his attention back to the fairly shorter mage, “Shit or get off the pot, Dorian. Damn!” That yanked him from his thoughts with an expression matching his friend’s grimace. But the Iron Bull actually looks fairly annoyed. “So he told a little fib, who cares? You’re fretting over this like you’re a wife to a disloyal husband!” A rather loud huff comes, “If you want him— ** _get him._** He isn’t going anywhere any time soon or turning into a rabid beast— _talk to him._ ”

The Iron Bull. Ben-Hassarath. Leader of the Bull’s Chargers… and apparently the official Inquisition matchmaker. Truth be told, Pavus is very much beginning to hate that last bit… but The Bull is infuriatingly right. He could swallow down whatever liquid courage he had in his flask and suck it up.

Dorian frowns, “What do I even say to him?”

“Anything! Just talk to him.” And with a low mutter, Bull turns attention away from the ‘Vint, “ _I got four sovereigns ridin’ on this…_ ”

The necromancer’s ears perk, “Excuse me? Would you like to repeat that last part?”

“I—” Awkward, but he has his reasons, “You aren’t particularly _hiding_ this shit, Dorian.”

“What do you mean by _that?_ ”

“Leiliana knows.”

“You told her?!” It’s almost a struggle to keep his voice low.

“ _You aren’t hiding **anything!**_ ” Bull paused for a moment, “She’s known since the beginning. You get all red an’ shit around him. You can’t hide that crush.” Another pause and he slaps a hand onto Dorian’s shoulder, “I’m calling him over and you two are gonna pull off into the little forest and be friendly.”

“No. Don’t you dare, Bull.”

“Too bad, Princess— _HEY, RED!_ ” Imalia’s head jolted up and followed Blackwall’s attention on seeking the sound of Bull’s loud, distinct voice. Once they made eye contact, Bull gave him a little hand motion that left the Warden patting his other’s shoulder. “I need you for something.”

* * *

 

Dorian’s not ready to apologize… or that’s what he’s been telling himself. No liquid courage sat in his flask and no strength sat in his voice. He was nervous— _horrified_ to actually confess everything. Imalia, on the other hand, had no idea where he wanted to start with any questions. He could start anywhere and it’d sound as if he were blaming his shorter friend.

_Go for it…_

“Why did you… kiss me?” the Marcher scoffs at himself, “That sounds really childish. Sorry. I’m… curious mostly. I’ve been meaning to ask this entire time.”

Shoulders roll forward with an uneasy shake of his head, “I am unsure myself. It was out of instinct. Something willed me to do it. I do suppose,” he stutters for a moment, embarrassed because he can’t even push out a simple word like _kiss_ , “ ** _it_** had to be some type half-assed apology— have I gone too far?”

“No.”

A word so simple had taken Dorian off guard. _No._ Imalia was not put off by the sudden touch; either that or he was being kind (as always). Alas, it rose more questions within the younger mage’s mind, almost boggling him with questions that almost sent him spinning. Imalia wasn’t supposed to say **_no._** He was supposed to push him away and scold him for such actions! What Dorian had done was improper! And it didn’t help that he stood almost panicking in front of a man who openly deceived him.

Thoughts slow there. Imalia fabricated these little things to slip his way into the Inquisition. What if what he said the other night was another bit of misinformation? He’s not here for friendship! He’s here to eradicate the Inquisition from the inside out!

Dorian’s mind finally stops there. All those petty little questions stuck there and rewound back to what Bull has said earlier. This was all a awful reason to be so blindly bitter at the man. He allowed himself to get so riled up because of what his past had accumulated over the years that one harmless bit of misguidance set him overboard. How does a man apologize after _that?_

“No…?”

“Why would I believe you had gone too far? I honestly thought you weren’t interested.”

Disbelief is written in his raised brows. Eyes the shade of incoming storms had widened and locked on Monette as if he had grown a new head out of the blue. His lips twitch with the want to speak, but nothing comes and his mind has shot off once again, leaving no time to catch any of them. “You thought… I wasn’t interested?”

“With honesty? I thought you were far more interested in B-Bull…” He speaks low and slowly, those mixed hues staring down at the matted patches of grass and scarce snow. For weeks— _months_ even, he had been lost in that one thought that he had no chance for a man like Dorian Pavus. The altus was a man of higher noble blood than he—why fancy the witch when you can snag a warrior that can protect?

At the beginning he assumed the Templar. Handsome, charming smile, _clean…_ why not him? Yet the discomfort around him, the slight annoyance displayed when the other put mages down just to praise everyone else slaughtered that idea. Yet, seeing him with Bull, the idea of it spawned without reason. They always seemed so happy when they spoke to each other. Almost as if they had been close friends… _or more._ It was different to hear otherwise.

Especially from him.

“No. No, no, no, no, no. We—we are not a _thing._ He and I are merely friends. You, on the other hand—you…” Dorian huffed, hands shaking again as they steer Imalia’s attention back to him, eye contact in full and voice lower than a whisper, “You…? I have been painfully enamored since… since we met. Silly thing, that rapture at first sight is, hmm?”

Nothing could stop fingers from grazing the reddening warmth of Dorian’s cheek. He’s nervous. By the Maker’s grace, Imalia is nervous. The Warden could feel that twist in his gut. No matter how many times he kept telling himself this shouldn’t happen, he fell further into wanting more of what he felt was denied just a couple days ago. The Knight wants this—every last bit of it, but will it last? Will it work? In times like this, he shan’t complain. He needs a bit of light in all this despair and darkness, doesn’t he?

He’s willing to make that attempt and give his all into making it work.

Lips pressed to Dorian’s forehead, he could hear the little noise escape the electromancer’s throat. “A rough few days and here I thought I had ruined everything…” Monette’s voice lowers, “And here you are giving me a second chance. I don’t deserve it, but… I _will_ do everything in my heart and relinquish all that I can to prove that your choice in me was not a complete disaster.”

A nervous laugh from Imalia, but a soft beam of comfort bubbles from the younger mage, “No disaster comes if you decide to stay honest…?”

“Everything you desire to know, you will have. This is my oath to you and you alone.”

Not a second more and he’s captured Pavus’ mouth with his own, holding nothing back but a little breath and muffled noise. His heart pounds at the little motions and gentle touches of Dorian’s hands gripping and pulling him just a bit closer. To him, it feels nice to have a bit of this stress lifted from his shoulders with the uncomfortable edge that had him wondering if he had ruined everything. As much as he tried to push further away from the knot in his gullet, he _needed_ this— **craved** it, even.

With a little smile and a break from the other, Imalia brings his hands to greet the other man’s, fingers curling around slender others as he pulls them free from his face and down to his lips. Dorian is worth the attempt for simple happiness.


	8. Hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this is mad late. Forgive me! Writer's block kicked me while I was down and took my lunch money. So this chapter and the next are just filler/buffer chapters to help me work through writer's block and get back on my game.
> 
> Thank you for being patient!

From afar, they heard the sound  
Of ten thousand voices raised in song,  
And the marching of a great host.

**_Shartan 9:16, Dissonant Verse_ **

* * *

 

The mountains bring a long, arduous trek through small forests and snow sprinkled dirt paths. People began clustering to keep sanity, holding little to grand conversations to bolster their morale while others kept to themselves in silence, barely making it up the steep hills that lie in their wake. Everyone, from youth to elderly, was feeling that weary ache in their bones.

_Soon,_ someone was heard a day or so ago, _we’ll find our new home._

Had it come early when hopeful voices sang out in religious hymns, annoyance wouldn’t have followed so closely behind. Templars, rogue and loyal, sit watching like hungry buzzards over elderly Enchanters still practicing their craft in silence, teaching those who quested to learn with joy in their heart. These were wise tutors—men and women whom had led their lives teaching the hopeful to find their place in a world where their power is forced into the shadows. The mages are here to help, not to be babysat. Yet, there’s always a group who assumes the worst of a handful of them out of stereotype.

They are rather tough opponents when taught, mages are. A magical barrier can withstand much more than anyone without magic could think of. It blocks the deep slash of a man’s sword or the penetration of a rogue’s arrow, but no matter what—even with the occasional strike to the face, blows still leave bruises. However, a feat, such as throwing up a protective shield, is rather difficult when one’s enemies are Chantry trained.

Why could they never have a decent _quiet_ morning?

Lip split and cheek swollen, he hadn’t given up just yet. Imalia was better than that. A Templar-trained, Circle raised Warden wasn’t allowed to falter, even if he had been left to his own fists to protect him the best he could. And why had they targeted him? He befriended the blood mage, had he not? Best way to push a point in his direction eventually.

They caught him with his back turned, tucking himself away after a moment alone to piss behind a tree. At least they gave him the chance to make himself decent before shoving him into the nearest tree. They spent no time with Imalia. When one muted him, he swung for the other. Why not fight back? Was he was supposed to be some type of beacon of friendship and allyship as the Inquisitor’s companion? Well, yes… and no. He could still stand as a balefire of kindness and still protect himself the best he could. It was only fair.

Alas, he’s still wondering— _why him?_

As he ducks under one swing and takes a club to the back from another, his body tenses and his teeth grit at the sudden loss of breath. Monette staggers forward, trying to catch himself before swinging back and elbowing the nearest Templar as hard as he could. With all that’s come and gone of Haven and the march, could they not allow a night of peace? No. Apparently not.

He’s just as tired as they are, but the group seemed to be more motivated on dragging mages through the mud to keep up with their own entertainment. Must be odd to have one actually fight back. Imalia shifts harshly to avoid another swing, yet took one himself to knock the leader to the ground. The bigger Templar just seemed to be… something he’s not ready to deal with.

He’s a robust man, isn’t he? Standing before the Knight, he breathes raggedly from his mouth with a stream of white wisps rising into the air and tight armor that he should have resized as stands hunched with a squished in pot belly—it’s unattractive, really. Then again, nothing on him was worthwhile to look at in the first place. His top lip held a split that did nothing but show the gap in his teeth where others had rotted away. Just the general sight of it brought a churn to Imalia’s stomach.

Yet he kept his distance and his defense up. The Templar came bearing weaponry and Imalia held nothing but his fists and the brass knuckles he kept tucked into his boot. His shield had been casted to the wet ground ages ago, but his club stayed firm within his grip and apart of the Warden wanted to make a dive for it, hold something against himself to help him back out into the crowds of escapes and disappear properly.

Alas, there he stood, body aching from the beating it received. Imalia could have stood his ground properly and given these men what-for, but there is a stigma that burns deep within his core. Templars are far more than _just_ the enemy, to him, they deserve death. Every last one of them. And if he really stood up against them, no silencer of his magic would halt him—they’d be dead. Plain and simple. Just now, he must hold a face that shows that the Inquisition aides were **_not_** monsters for that’s how he was trained to work.

With the others scattered and moaning at their feet, the Warden kept his ground and eased back, slowly inching his way towards the shield. Though, before he could reach it, a shrill whistle is heard. The two of them snap their gaze in opposite directions, but there was no second glance as a deafening crack gave Monette a little jump. It’s the head of a staff that connects with the potbellied man, crunching loudly against his temple to stagger the man. There was a twirl given, one that danced the heavy staff ‘twixt fingers as the wood went colliding into the hefty man’s knees.

Another spin and the blade of the weapon had now sat deep within wet soil and gripped by a shorter man—a mage… _Dorian._ “It does not take a man several minutes to take a piss… so I requested a second pair of eyes.”

A little squint and the ‘Vint gives a little gesture past him. Behind him sat the grimace of a so-called Ex-Templar and exasperated expression of a tired Herald. Slowly they trudged past him with little aggravation, but a feeling of relief (or at least for Alessana) when they noticed there was still life in the brainless drones.

“I have to put out another message to the troops again, don’t I?” Cullen nudged one with his boot and frowned again, “Do you have any clue of why they attacked you? _”_

“They don’t like the fact that I associate myself with the local blood mage. Decided to send a message that ultimately became their failure.” He had only stepped away to take in the scenery and… well… _pee._ Had he known it was something he wasn’t allowed to do without a buddy, he would have brought someone along.

“Do you associate yourself with the local blood mage?”

“Only if you think Dorian is a blood mage.”

Pavus scoffs, “I’m honored, but if you think so, my friend, you would be sorely surprised.”

The Herald tapped her foot and glanced over at Imalia with a frown to equal her warrior counterpart. The Knight replied with a grimace. Deep in his core could he feel her ready to blame him for this mess granted this had not been the first Templar related mess broken up within the last day or two. Ever since the mages joined their side, it’s been nothing but chaos. Them ganging up on mages with their backs turned was far too common at this point.

“So, you had nothing to do with… this? No one’s dead?”

“If they were, I wouldn’t have stuck around.”

“ ** _Eien,_** ” she started firmly, “you can’t keep picking fights because you don’t like them.”

He visibly cringes at the sound of his own name, “Why are you assuming _I_ started this? Next you’re going to say I need a handler to take a piss.”

Alessana waves him off with sound of annoyance before taking a knee beside Cullen. She mutters something to him with a harsh squint in her God-Brother’s direction and huffs. The Herald knows that her brother is quite the confrontational one but a part of her doesn’t want to automatically blame the ambush on him. The string of attacks towards apostates was beginning to be a mess for the entirety of the Inquisition. If something is said to the Templars, something _must_ be said to her companions… especially her brother.

Stepping out of sight brought and arm hooked around Imalia’s and pulled him further into the snowy forest. Dorian could feel him teeming with aggravation and the longer he stood there focused on the fights, the worse it would become. Once they strayed further away, he unhooks his arm from Monette’s and rests his hands to the little scratches at his cheeks just to watch Imalia pull away, but slowly fall back into the soft touch of his dearest.

Fingers glow with a dull green glow, chilling scarred cheeks with the feeling of skin mending slowly. Dorian hums, the sound is soft and tuneless, but comforting to hear. However, as hands wander further down, there’s a hiss given from Monette, hands quickly jetting back to pull them free from his torso. It’s not a noise of pain, but also not something he could put his quite pinpoint so quickly. Instead, Dorian grabs his hands and pulled them to his mouth. In that same motion, the Warden leans down a bit to place a small kiss to the top of Dorian’s head, his raven hair tickling the Commander’s nose a bit.

“I knew it. I just… _I knew it._ ” Pavus seethed, gripping the taller mage’s fingers tighter, “I want you to be happy, but… things like this are prone to continue.”

“You’re upset because someone attacked me? So what, they don’t like mages—there are a lot of people like that.”

“It should not have happened.”

“Yes… _and?_ If they want to try and scare me away from the blood mage, by the Maker’s will, I will continue fighting to prove that my beloved is worth my time.” Monette sighs, “You are a good man and I intend to prove it to everyone.”

“So they can believe you’ve been hexed by some Tevinter curse?”

“ _Smitten_ by some Tevinter’s curse.” Small, but honest, Imalia smiles as he leads peppered kisses from the shorter mage’s hair, down his forehead, and lingered against his nose with a chuckle, “Let’em believe it.”

“So they can come after you again?” Dorian pulls back, “You are out of your mind. I will not allow them to hurt you again. Not while I stand at your side.”

It’s a little nod given, brows raised in agreement, “That’s fair, but—” He’s far more aggressive than the first time they’ve shared a proper kiss. He’s yanked Dorian back over to him and gripped his biceps tightly to keep him in place and lowered himself further to catch his handsome necromancer the best he could—even if it did result in a slight collision of noses. No time was wasted once he releases him, hands sliding to Dorian’s hips then to his upper back.

Dorian Pavus has forgotten where he was just that easily. His mind is swimming with thoughts he could barely catch nor could he seem to understand. All he knew was that his body felt lighter than air… and apparently lighter than air was raising to the tip of his toes to wrap his arms tightly around Imalia’s  neck and taste him deep. A low groan is muffled between shuffles once they break free, Dorian dizzy from the rush of oxygen filling his lungs. Breathing deep sounded like stunted panting, the tingle still fresh on his lips and the fairly new taste of apples (and slight tinge of copper) still lingering on his tongue.

“Wh-what…? What was that for?” It’s not a complaint bubbling from the ‘Vint, just another question as his heart still calms from the thudding pulsing in his chest.

“My apologies for scaring you and my thanks for you coming to my rescue.” Another short kiss. “My hero.”

The silence is comforting, accepted by both as Dorian presses himself against Monette, taking in the soft scent of lingering Earl Grey and exhaustion. This was nice. A new beginning for two far too nervous to hold another’s hand in public. An attempt for something new despite some type of odd hardship to come.

                This was what happiness felt like, isn’t it?


	9. Stress and Ease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should have gotten a beta, but... oh well. It's been a while and my want to work on this came out of nowhere.  
> So... expect staggered chapters?

For You are the fire at the heart of the world,  
And comfort is only Yours to give.  
 _ **~Transfigurations 12:6**_

* * *

 

None of them expected the villages lost within these mountains. They came as sudden patches of quiet oases loyal to the Ferelden cold and vast grassland that kept the lands just as beautiful as the rest of the Kingdom. Paths made of mossy, mountain stone sat etched into the ground and twisted ‘round the little farms and commonplace of the small towns. Among the steep hills, homes sat carved into the face of the old stone and given homely little features of wooden porches and wide open windows.

Ignoring the cold and worn joints of the people around them, this felt more welcoming than that of what Haven was. The people were kind with broad, welcoming personalities that just felt… odd. They were nice, a bit _too_ nice, but it was better than nothing. At least, within the small towns, a lot of them made it easier for the Inquisition. Members were allowed to stay, find homes, shelter, and family as long as the Inquisition provided adequate protection. A fair trade off.

Settled in one of the most northern hamlets, Solas alerted them that their walk was soon to be over. “ _A couple days to make it over the mountain,_ ” he said over lunch, “ _by the second day’s morning, if we march consistently tomorrow, we should see our goal._ ”

At least everyone could finally rest at this point. Everyone has found themselves scattered among the town, tending to whatever help they could give or taking a moment to put their feet up. Surrounding a bonfire, the companions sat close for small talk and trivial antics. It keeps comfort in all that’s happened, rebuilds the dissipating resolves.

“I’ve noticed something,” stretching his legs, Solas finds a moment to seek warmth by the fire with a satisfied sigh as his toes find life again from being stuck in the snow for so long, “about you, Monette.”

He tilts his head, “Me? What have I done to interest you?”

Allowing his staff to fall to his shoulder, he gives a little noise and grins, “You’ve aged a considerable amount within the last ten years.”

“You say that like we’ve met before.”

“We haven’t, but we have.”

There’s a little shake of his head, “I don’t understand.”

"My travels in the fade led me to something interesting... _You._ "

Imalia pursed his lips, the corners slowly curling into a slight grin, "Now you're flirting with me."

An honest chuckle bubbles from Solas, "I saw a group— perhaps a team of recruits— all cautiously posed around a fallen warrior. I can't hear his words, but I can see his commands; the way he hunches over, blood at his lips, anger burning in his eyes as he gestures for an attack. The boy in front of him is the one who reminded me of you. I watched as he threw down his staff and ripped the warrior's sword from the soil. With no shield to protect him, I questioned to myself: does he keep his magic to protect him?"

“Fascinating,” Imalia started, “you know you could have just asked about these little travels rather than just diggin’ around?”

The elf nods, chewing his lip, “This I could have done, yes, but the fade allows me to escape when things are rather… boring. And we’ve been walking for quite some time.”

“Mhm… Still could have asked.” Imalia huffs, “Anyway, did you get your answer?"

“In a way. Though the mage enchanted his blade and spun with it in grandeur, I sat skeptical of if it was you. You and he have an entirely different… look.”

“Let me guess: rather tall, lanky, and a big, poofy red ponytail?” Imalia can’t help but chuckle, “Ten years brings one hell of a drastic change.”

“Well… _that_ and the fact that there’s a massive difference with the eyes. The boy had a different eye color. They were… blue? Maybe brighter?”

Imalia pointed to the rosy pink eye then over to the red, “Grey. Light blue.”

Solas shook his head and Dorian scoffed. He had to speak up, “So you know the boy in the story?”

“He’s talking about me.”

Dorian shook his flask, listening for a slosh of liquid and glanced back to the Warden, “Not with that eye color…”

“It was a _long_ time ago.” Imalia scrunches his nose for a moment to ponder, “The color was altered about… five years back on accident. But the boy is me, you’re not wrong there. Ten years with freedom that you couldn’t have before? The change came from exploration—tattoos, muscle building, scars. Couldn’t stay a fluffy haired stick forever. A Warden’s diet doesn’t allow you to stay that small.”

The Elf gives a slow nod, arms crossing over his chest. Wardens are an interesting bunch, aren’t they? Knowing so little of their organization made Solas more curious to push further into knowing more of them or at least of the one who seemed willing to talk, yet as he turned his attention back to the Commander, the seat before the fire was empty.

* * *

Solas had brought up a sore spot despite how lively Imalia spoke of it. The blight was just another notch on hollowed emotions. It was not a time that made heroes nor was it a moment that made boys into men. For months, the Enchanter spent dark nights in cold, wet caves in fear that whatever lurked in the dark or sat waiting to hang them under the King’s orders instilled terror into a circle mage’s heart. He was only nineteen and trudging his way to twenty.

He was a budding man at that time. Hadn’t quite had the chance to grow the hair on his chest nor had he held the chance for his voice to stop cracking every so often. With the months of battle and lassitude built around him and their crew, that day is what revived him. Years of all that toil and depression from what the Circle washed over him that evening once he lifted his Commander’s blade into his hand—he was not going to fall after making it that far. That was a promise made to his Commander.

If he wouldn’t allow death to carve deeper into his skin, he wasn’t allowed to grant anyone else the opportunity to snatch his life away. Imalia made that promise to stay strong and conquer. He was to prevail over grief and silent loneliness. He was to battle each twinge in his chest as if he were pushing through another blighted war.

 “ _It forges character in a weak soul._ ” The Warden could still hear that rumble of that man’s voice. It echoed and vibrated in his chest when his Commander spoke or laughed. Imalia misses it. “ _What you do to yourself is a terrible thought of escape. I cannot change that, but I can persuade you to lead your mind elsewhere. You can use that emotion and fuel it into your power and make your body strong even when your mind struggles. Promise me that, brat. Stoke the fire and turn your enemies and weaknesses to ash. It will make you a grand leader._ ”

Having Solas dig so close to such an important milestone and not understanding the situation just rubbed Monette the wrong way. He had only been at that man’s side for nothing more than a year and he watched one of the best fall come the end of that week with wounds too dire to save him.

“Awfully dreadful that Solas is, hm?”

There’s a silent click of the closing door as Dorian steps in, little white saucers in each hand and ceramic tea cups to match on top. Though the others found themselves enjoying that of the late night of easy comfort and time to push stressors away, the inn they found that morning sat quiet and free from the nonsense that echoed outside. Felt nice to be somewhere warm for once, even if Dorian had become accustomed to enveloping himself in Imalia’s surcoat.

He listens to the older mage huff a sound of acknowledgement before sitting the tea upon the night stand beside the bed. Slowly does Imalia’s head perk up from folded arms, hair messily covering one side of his face as he eyeballs the cups. Taking the moment to skim his ringed fingers through soft, red curls, Dorian silently takes the seat beside him.

“All they had was a specific type of _green_ tea or coffee, I believe, but!—my wandering hands found your stash.” Dorian brushes the wisps of hair from Imalia’s face, “It explains why your clothing is so pungent with it.”

The Warden gives a muffled noise as he sits ups up with a little groan and rotation of his arm, “It… doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Oh heavens no. I quite like the smell of Earl Grey. Better than coffee. Safer than whatever else teas lay in my wake.”

“What do you mean by that?” He’s silently sipping away at the tea—strong, but bitter. Not nearly enough sugar, but he shan’t complain. Dorian didn’t have to bring him any.

“Stripweed is popular in more flavorful teas. I’m terribly allergic to it.” Dorian then sits tall, hands in his lap, and his foggy gaze averted to his… lover? That’s what he was to him now, wasn’t it? Just the mere thought of it made him nervous, but warm and welcomed. “You are far too quiet. Solas didn’t get under your skin with that fade wandering, did he?”

“Not one bit.”

Dorian scoffs into his cup, “You’re a horrible liar, dear.”

Imalia sighed, placing his cup onto the nightstand and adjusting himself to rest his head upon the electromancer’s shoulder. “He means no disrespect, I know this, but listening to him speak just…” Lips purse and he simply closes his eyes, “I don’t have the heart to tell him he ventured too far.”

“Too far?” He shakes his head, “Hm. Talk to me. Was that an important moment?”

“No, not entirely.”

“You can talk to me, Imalia. I don’t want you stressing yourself over an old memory. It’s me and you here—no one to judge you.”

The ceramic glass is back in his hands, the heat of the tea warming his finger tips. Feels nice, even if the drink itself still hasn’t sweetened itself since he’s last tasted it. “Enlisting saved my life, plain and simple. I don’t bring it up because I don’t know how to phrase it without sounding like I was escaping something other than The Circle.”

“You say that like it you weren’t.”

“I suppose you have a point.” He takes another drink, a longer one just to enjoy the warmth in his mouth, “My relationship with my Commander was short, but he taught me more than I ever did when I was home.”

Dorian snorted into his own cup, “Crowds must have been so overwhelming.”

“For a while, yes!”

 The Knight describes it as extreme self-awareness. In the Circle, one knows the Templars are watching, though in his case, the mages watched with caution too. Yet there, he knew how to avoid their gaze and ghost through the halls without confrontation (or as much as he could, at least). Tevinter Circles have more freedom, they socialize and make their way through cities and civilization, but living the sheltered life was different. People still make Imalia a bit nervous.

“It’s not like I’m paranoid being around people,” he continues, “it’s just... overwhelming at times. Felt better to be secluded or at least in very small groups.”

Placing his empty saucer on the nightstand, Dorian leaned back on the bed, resting on his forearms. He’s silent for a moment, “Our reasoning for seclusion are almost one in the same. Fascinating.” He doesn’t give Imalia a second glance, but those stormy grey eyes focus on the door in the distance, his vision blurring slightly, “The prisoner Cullen tugging around is my mentor. He and his son were— _are_ my friends.”

Imalia’s resting on his legs now, “The ‘evil’ magister?”

“Is that how they introduce him to you?”

“That what the guard gossip was. I wanted to talk to him— _meet_ him myself. Tevinter mages always fascinated me.”

“Do I fascinate you?” Dorian snorts.

“Fascinate is an understatement. Enthrall. Amuse. Amaze… Excite. But… a _magister?_ Never met a magister before.”

“Hm. Don’t think you will either. At least for a while if we never travel into Tevinter, but he— _Alexius_ —did what he could to ‘stop my destruction’ as he told my father, which was true. Drunk off my ass in the middle of a sea of blurry, beautiful men on the ass end of Tevinter, I was…” He sits back up, hands in his lap and eyes still on the door, “I was falling apart and being pushed through the mud—in a metaphorical sense—got my head on straight. The drinking, however, that’s something to be worked on.”

Quiet did the room become once Dorian finished speaking. Had he made this some type of pissing contest of who had it worse? His stomach churned with that thought like a rock thudded into the pit of his stomach.

“Point is: keep your mentor in mind, but don’t let the negatives drag you down.”

Unease rests in his chest once he silences. That feeling of making it about _him_ sat uncomfortably on his shoulders as he hoped he hadn’t intruded on something he knew little about. Yet he jumps to the sudden touch at his thigh, the grip came with a gentle squeeze. Though the touch was more than just brief, he watched as Imalia’s hand pulled away and tucked a few strands free from his face.

“You aren’t wrong, I just…” Those skinny fingers are back to grazing themselves up and down the ‘Vint’s thigh then roughly squeezing and shaking his leg, “Let me be sore and bitter, Dorian!” There’s that smile that warms him so well. Yet, despite Monette’s words, he’s found himself in better spirits with the necromancer at his side.

“You are not allowed to be down and out while I breathe.” Dorian sits up, “So, no.”

“No?”

“Maker, no.” He leans over, hands clasping Imalia’s bicep and his legs crossing to trap that strayed hand in between. “Frayed nerves are never to be shoved lower into your mind to stress you out further. You have someone to pester when you’re down. I am here for you as you are for me… I’d hope?”

“Saying no would be silly of me and I did promise you truth,” an awkward turn and the Warden cocks his head just enough to place a small kiss upon the apple of Dorian’s cheek. “Must sound so… ridiculous with all these little promises and it’s only been what…? A couple weeks and I’m already sounding like a swooning teenage boy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” At least he knows the interest is real… or close enough.

Imalia stirs for a moment, a little tug of his arm with a playful frown to follow. The Commander gives another squeeze as he attempts to slide his fingers further upward rather uncomfortably, “Can I have my hand back?”

Legs tighten and Dorian shifts closer to his lover, “No. I’d prefer to keep it for myself, if you don’t mind.”

Here lies comfort, happiness, that odd mental soundness that comes on those rare occasions. Neither of them could shove the feeling away knowing it wasn’t an unwarranted warmth. It’s lulling sweetness that leaves a happy tingle deep within and keeps that endless, borderline undying smile strong on chapped lips. It’s so worth it. So, so worth it.


End file.
